


Routine

by Wordsplat



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OCD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 04:10:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordsplat/pseuds/Wordsplat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since waking from the ice, Steve has developed an increasingly difficult case of OCD. Not wanting to be a burden, he doesn't tell anyone of his troubles and always keeps his teammates at a safe distance, not getting too close to any of them. He's struggling just to keep his head above water when Tony catches him in one of his compulsions, and refuses to be pushed away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Steve had a routine.

He woke up without an alarm; he hadn't needed one in a long time. Every morning at the exact same time, Steve was rolling over in bed, checking the clock. The time, date and year always blinked back at him in bright red, imprinting themselves on to his brain.  _You're still here._ Though he did it every day now, reading the time  _1:11am,_ always felt like something was clicking into place.

1.

After that first click, he rolled out of bed mechanically, stripping down and showering without much thought. He dried off and combed his hair into place, then brushed his teeth nine times, the numbers beginning to run circles in his mind as he brushed, over and over and over until the next number clicked into place.

9.

He got dressed in his running gear, then he was out the door. He always tried to jog at first, something he remembered from too long ago about warming up and not straining himself, but he never jogged long. The numbers pressed against his mind like they wanted to be written across his forehead, begging him to go, take off and never stop. Before he knew it he was always running, sprinting until he couldn't breathe and still going, going until he reached the four hour mark and it clicked into place.

4.

Wherever he was when he hit four hours, he always stopped. He only ran so fast, so far, because of the numbers. He'd tried so many times to stop; to not run, or to run for only an hour, but the numbers just screamed at him, rattling around in his head and driving him insane until he was the one wanted to scream. He'd learned to just listen to them. So he ran until the numbers stopped, then he walked back to the Avengers Tower, using the time to steady his shaky, panicked breathing. Depending on where he ended up in his runs, by the time he got back the sun was usually almost up. He went inside, locked the door, unlocked it, and locked it again.

2.

The morning routine was over then, and the numbers had been silenced for the moment. He usually took a minute there, steadying himself against the doorframe, breathing in the sweet silence in his mind before he went to go make breakfast and continue his day. The rest of the day was sort of routine too, but it wasn't the desperate, needy routine that filled Steve's mornings. This was just a comfortable, easy routine the team had fallen into together as they became familiar with each other.

Steve would make a buffet of breakfast food, partially because he was the first up, and mostly because he loved to cook. Natasha and Clint would enter the kitchen first, arguing amicably about something or the other. Clint always stacked his plate high no matter what Steve made, always with extra bacon and at least a gallon of orange juice. Natasha simply shook her head and told him his skin was going to turn orange someday, while she took modest portions and a hot cup of tea.

Coulson (who still claimed adamantly he did not live there, in spite of his constant presence) was the next to show up with Bruce soon to follow, and the spies would both use each of their entrances as a distraction to pick off each other plates. Both Coulson and Bruce had a large cup of coffee, and while Coulson wasn't a big eater, Bruce was the one who ate a surprising amount. Well, surprising at first; once Steve had given it any thought, it had occurred to him that Bruce had been on the run for so many years that having this much food around was probably a considerable luxury. After that, Steve had always made sure there was more than enough to go around.

Thor was always the last of the ones to wake up naturally, immediately setting his sights on the heaping plate of poptarts Steve had prepared in advance. After devouring that he moved down the line and had a go at whatever was left, while Steve turned on the unique coffee machine Tony had in the corner. He clicked through the settings to have it brew Tony's perfect cup of coffee, and the dazed-looking, still more than half-asleep man himself usually wandered in a moment or so later.

Breakfast was always a rambunctious affair. They were all very physical people and there was always bickering and teasing, even occasionally a physical fight, but between Coulson and Steve none of it ever escalated too far. They laughed and messed around, chattering of plans for the day and arranging spars. The way they all lingered over the last bits of their food, enjoying each other's company, always made Steve smile.

After breakfast broke up, they usually all went to train, minus Tony and Bruce who would go off to their workshop and lab respectively. The others went straight to the basement for their morning workouts, usually training alone at first and eventually migrating together and sparring. Coulson often watched, offering tips and pointing out weak spots, and every once in a while he would lay Barton out flat when he was being more of a pill than usual.

They each finished training at different times, wandering off to do their own thing for a while. Mondays and Fridays they had SHIELD meetings, and they would all suffer through that and go out for lunch afterwards. Otherwise they ate lunch on their own or with one of the others, occupying their afternoons by spending one on one time with each other, bonding and doing things or even just talking.

Steve was the only one who didn't participate in this.

They were fantastic teammates, really, and the only people in this century he could rely on. He fought alongside them, trusted them to have his back like he would always have theirs. Yet, he couldn't become friends with them, not really. Because friends told each other things, talked about their problems, and Steve didn't want to give any of them yet another problem to deal with.

They didn't need to deal with Steve's increasing neuroticism since leaving the ice. Didn't need to know about his unhealthy dependance on his increasingly impossible to ignore compulsions to keep him sane. Didn't need to see the way he obsessed over the newspaper, taking it up to his room and pouring over every inch of it every afternoon after they went their separate ways.

This...thing, these numbers, they were his problem, his failure. He would deal with it on his own.

So the days trickled by. When they were bonding he would read or draw or wander the city, and when they were all together as a group for press events or movie nights or saving the world from complete destruction he would join in with them, fitting in instantly with a laugh or a smile he'd practiced to perfection in front of the mirror, and no one was the wiser.

And every night, he padded downstairs, locking the door, unlocking it, and locking it again with a bone-weary sigh. Because every night the numbers would rush in his ears again, crackling like static as the fuzziness of routine, of mindless habit, took over.

2.

There was one difference from his morning routine, and at first Steve had simply been glad for small miracles because he wasn't sure if even he could run eight hours a day. Yet, there was something about this particular part of his routine that made him feel sick even as he did it, like he was swallowing bile. Changing into his pajamas, getting in bed, turning out the light, then turning it back on, getting out, and changing out of his pajamas only to do it again for a total of four times drove home to Steve more than any of his other numbers exactly how completely  _fucked up_  he really was.

4.

He would then get out of bed for the fourth and final time, run cold water and splash it on his face, hoping to wake himself from this endless nightmare. Nothing. He wanted to scream, so instead he prayed.  _Please, God, help me. I can't...I can't keep doing this, can't keep hearing these numbers and their screaming and I'm going insane and I know it but I can't stop and I just...I can't do this anymore. I know you must have brought me back for a reason, but I can't see it. I can't do this alone, please...please help me._ But God either didn't hear or didn't care, and the numbers continued to press against his skull with increasing urgency until he picked up his toothbrush and aggressively, angrily scrubbed his teeth nine times. Then the numbers finally began to slow, circling in his mind lazily as he counted down.

9.

He looked at the clock with tired, world-worn eyes as he pulled up the covers one last time, the familiar red numbers blinking brightly at him as the last piece clicked into place.  _11:11pm._

1.

Steve had a routine, and it kept him sane.

Relatively speaking.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time Steve had been caught in his habits, it had been by Natasha.

It was within the first few weeks of them all moving in together. She had been up one night, walking through the hallway when Steve had been locking the door twice. This was early on in the development of his routine, and he could still remember the cold panic that had gripped him; he wasn't normal. He was strange and wrong and broken and now  _she knew._ Neither of them had said a word, and she had only given him a moment's glance before nodding to him in acknowledgement and moving on. Steve had panicked a bit, but nothing changed in their day to day interaction and it had eventually occurred to him that to the paranoid master assassin, locking the door twice just seemed like good measure.

None of his other habits were noticeable, and Steve watched more carefully for viewers when he locked the door. That had been the end of it.

But the second time Steve was caught, he was not so lucky.

"Hey, Capsicle."

Steve froze; it was 1:40ish in the morning, and he'd been about to leave on his run. The numbers were pestering him, whispering in his ears like white noise as Tony continued to peer at him curiously. Why was Tony awake, why was he here, why was he  _looking_ at Steve like that-

"You okay?" Tony raised an eyebrow cautiously, "You look like you're spacing out on me."

"Fine," Steve nodded, trying to silence the numbers as they grew louder, more persistent, "I'm fine. Why are you…what are you doing up?"

"Could ask you the same thing," Tony shrugged, not seeming inclined to answer.

Steve's first guess would be work-Tony was an textbook workaholic-but the man was wearing a black tank and boxers, and that wasn't exactly something even the eccentric genius would usually work on machines in. Then again, what did he know about Tony's patterns? He and the other man had never gotten along; they bickered constantly. Before he could think about it too much, Steve's train of thought was derailed because Tony was suddenly looking at him very intently.

"You ever get nightmares, Cap?"

_Only the one I'm living._

"I need to go," Steve blurted instead, evading Tony's question, "It's, uh, it's my time to run."

Steve moved around Tony, already headed for the door. If he didn't start moving, start jogging running  _sprinting_ he felt like the numbers were going to start bleeding out his ears.

"Cap, wait, I-"

But Steve was out the door, practically sprinting before he even made it to the street, letting the familiar rhythm of his feet against the pavement wash away whatever pitied concern he had imagined on his teammate's face.

Though Tony and Steve were a formidable duo on the field, at home, they didn't get along much. Tony had extended the offer to move in with him to Steve by default because he was an Avenger, and Steve had accepted because the Avengers needed to live together as a team. They spoke often, true, but it was always to nitpick at each other, bickering back and forth about trivial things, almost going to blows over serious things.

It wasn't that they were too different to function; that described pretty much their whole team, and yet the others all got along well together. In fact, on their better days, Steve had to acknowledge that they were more alike than he perhaps wanted to think. Though Tony, for reasons unfathomable to Steve, tried to hide it, he had a hero's heart. What he'd done with the missile back on their first mission was eerily similar to what Steve himself had done; they'd both taken on impossible odds and come out alive.

Though, Tony hadn't woken up 70 years later with his entire world swept out from under him.

Maybe that was it, then. Maybe Steve was a bit bitter, a bit jealous of the man who defied the odds and lived to see his friends again at the end of the day? No, that wasn't it. He had been genuinely happy that Tony had woken up; seeing the man fall from the sky, seeing his arc reactor dim as he stayed unresponsive…it had been awful. Steve wouldn't relive it for anything, and he would go down fighting before he let anything like it happen again.

So why couldn't he ever seem to have a civil conversation with the man?

Maybe because friends were a bad idea. Friends meant talking and sharing and revealing all his failings, and Steve couldn't bring himself to do that. How could he willingly inflict that on anyone, least of all Tony? No, it was better for both their sakes that they continued on as they were. Arguing kept them distant, kept Tony safe from the chaos in Steve's head.

* * *

"So this is a daily thing, then?"

"Jesus," Steve inhaled sharply, the word escaping his lips like a curse.

His hand flinched on the doorknob, and he whirled around to see Tony seated on the last step of the stairs. It was 2am, and he was on his way out to run. What on earth was Tony doing here? Steve pulled his hand back from the knob and pressed it to his chest instead, where his heart was beating like crazy. Tony was eyeing Steve like he was a wild animal about to run. Still surprised and suddenly feeling cornered, Steve snapped at Tony.

"Don't sneak up on people like that!"

Tony shrugged, making no promises, as he stood up, "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were actively avoiding me."

"Guess you're not as smart as they say, then."

"Well, you're not exactly 'what they say' yourself, Captain Comeback," Tony retorted. Then he shook his head as if to clear his thoughts, and reigned himself in for once, "Look, I didn't stay up until 2am in the morning to argue with you."

"Then why did you, exactly? Because I certainly didn't ask you to."

"You've been avoiding me."

"Yes. So?"

Tony was clearly caught off guard by that; he hadn't been expecting Steve to say it outright.

"Steve…"

Steve found himself dreading Tony's next words. Tony never used just his name. It was always Capsicle, or Cap, or Captain Something Or The Other. Never Steve. And while Steve normally didn't like it, it was strange to hear Tony say otherwise. There was also the small, very accurate fear in the back of his mind that Tony, ever perceptive, ever intelligent Tony, knew more than he was letting on.

"Look, we clearly don't always get along, and I know I'm not exactly great with the sensitivity gig either, but I could...help, y'know?" Tony took a half step forward, as if to touch Steve in some way, then stepped back, thinking better of it, "You don't have to do this all on your own."

For the briefest of seconds, Steve hesitated. His own words came back to him a in rush, a panicked chant, a broken prayer;  _I can't do this anymore. I can't do this on my own, please, please help me._ He was breaking, he knew, slowly cracking from the pressure under his own skin that was building each day. He would say it was driving him insane, if he wasn't so sure he was there already.

"I don't need help," Steve shook his head.

Because what he was supposed to do, exactly? Hoist all of his messed up, crazy issues onto Tony's shoulders, pass it off to him to deal with? No. That wasn't fair to Tony, and in spite of himself, in spite of all the fights, the arguments, not to mention the rules Steve had set up for himself to the contrary…somewhere along the line, he had started to like Tony. Tony, with his impossible to ignore charm and his unbearably sarcastic remarks. Tony, who tried so hard to hide his bravery and selflessness from the world. Tony, with his weary eyes and iridescent smile.

"I'm not saying you do," Tony was quick to rephrase himself, "I'm just saying…it might be easier if you didn't have to deal with it all by yourself."

"Deal with what, exactly?" Steve narrowed his eyes, challenging Tony to say it.

"I'm not going to pick you apart and stick a label on you, Captain Sensitive," Tony huffed, as if offended Steve would dare to think he would, "You aren't some pet project. You're having trouble adjusting, and you're my friend, I just want to help you-"

"Your…friend?"

"Yeah, Tarzan," Tony rolled his eyes at Steve's slow realization, then, with a wave of his hands, gesturing first at himself, then to Steve, "Tony. Steve. Friend."

Steve's silence spoke for itself.

"Right. We'll watch that movie sometime," Tony shook his head, realizing his mistake with a chuckle. Then, he paused, an idea coming to him. He looked at Steve, then, slowly, "We could watch it now?"

"At 2am in the morning?" Steve raised an eyebrow, though he couldn't help the small quirk of his lips that might have almost been a smile.

"Better than running," Tony grinned widely in return.

And just like that, the numbers slammed back into his mind. They'd receded somehow, distracted away by Tony's surprise appearance and his stupidly charming words and unnecessarily attractive face, but for all the quiet they had been giving him in the past few moments, they made up for it now. Clamoring and rattling and absolutely  _screaming_ in his head:

 _What are you_ doing _? Friends? With all your problems? Do you want to screw him up too? Do you? Go, get out of here! Run!_

Steve was out the door then, the numbers overtaking him, drowning him in a sea of destructive need and unhealthy compulsion. He let it wash over him until there was no thought, no sound, nothing but his sneakers pounding against the pavement in a pulsing rhythm until he could barely see straight.

It was little less than a half hour before something red gold and shiny came to a slow next to him.

"What're you  _doing_?" Steve huffed out, barely able to speak, both from his unrelenting pace and from utter surprise.

"There aren't many people out at 2:30am, I thought you might like some company," Tony hummed back cheerfully, though his voice sounded somewhat robotic from within the suit.

"Thought wrong," Steve shook his head. He almost pushed himself to run faster to escape Tony's presence, before realizing that probably wasn't possible. Steve was superhuman, but even he couldn't outrun Tony's repulsors for four hours. He turned, shooting a glare at the suited-up man, "Leave."

"No thanks. I like a good morning fly, don't you?" Tony replied cheekily.

"Go away," Steve growled, frustrated.

"Words hurt, Cap," Tony just chided, not missing a beat.

Steve managed to run in silence for all of a good thirty seconds before Tony began  _talking_ again.

"Now, how much sleep have you been getting, exactly?"

"Enough."

"I don't think so. Cause I've been reading the reports, and they say you can go extended periods of time without rest, sure, but they also say it catches up. Howard's specifically mentions that-"

Steve's step faltered, just briefly.

"You…read your father's reports?"

"I read all the reports."

"I was told you…didn't get along."

"We didn't. Doesn't make his work invalid. You're all living in my house, you don't think I don't keep tabs on you? I've read all our SHIELD files, hacked into General Ross' files on Bruce, some old Russian ones I  _think_ are on Natasha, not that I'd be alive if she knew I'd found them, and, yeah, I've looked at all the journals and documents on the super soldier experiment. That includes some of Howard's early work, which specifically states you could postpone sleep for long periods of time, but that you still needed it, which means-"

"D'you ever stop talking?"

"No need to be so moody, Captain Sassy, I figured you wouldn't want to talk too much…pretty brutal pace you're setting, even for you."

"I'm fine."

"So you say. As  _I_ was saying, you can only put off sleep for so long before it'll catch up with you, and if you're only getting two hours of sleep, you're going to-whoop!"

Steve stopped suddenly, grabbing the Iron Man suit and stopping him mid-flight.

" _What_ did you say?"

"Well, I didn't  _finish,"_ Tony grumbled huffily, "You kind of yanked me out of the air before I could-"

"No. The sleep. You said two hours."

"Well, yeah. That's what you've been getting, isn't it?"

" _How do you know that?"_ Steve demanded.

He didn't know whether to be furious or embarrassed, so he settled for both. He knew Tony had a surveillance system, but when they'd all moved in Tony had sworn up down left and right that their were no cameras in their suites. Natasha and Clint had swept their rooms and found none, he'd assume the same would hold true for his own room. What he did…if Tony had seen him, seen him get in and out of bed over and over, seen him brush his teeth repeatedly, seen him break down like some sort of deranged mental patient…

Steve wasn't going to be able to stop himself from actually punching Tony, and he wasn't entirely sure he'd want to.

"No!" Tony's exclaimed, understanding hitting him before Steve could, "No, I wouldn't…there's no cameras in your room, hand to god. I just asked JARVIS how much sleep you'd been getting, if you were going running at 2am in the morning. He said you'd been getting 2 hours a night, every night, for almost a month now."

Steve let his breath go, unaware he'd been holding it in the first place. Relief washed over him, and he released his grip on Iron Man's arm.

"Oh."

"At ease, oh Captain, my Captain," Tony remarked cheekily, and Steve wondered if maybe he should hit Tony anyway, just for good measure.

Three hours later, and Tony was still blabbing away.

Something about his designs for the Mark VIII suit, maybe something to do with a jetpack. Steve wasn't really listening. Well, he was listening to Tony speak, just not the specific words. Steve had realized about a half hour ago that Tony's voice somehow kept the numbers silent-maybe he simply talked so loudly and so long that the numbers had given up, wouldn't  _that_ be a miracle-and for that, Steve would have gladly listened to the man on repeat for hours on end. In spite of this, Steve couldn't help but wonder what Tony was still doing here. It was approaching 5am in the morning after all, and Tony couldn't be having fun; the man wasn't a morning person, that much he knew. Tony was officially either the single most impossibly stubborn or impossibly kind person Steve had ever met.

Scratch that, Steve noted as Tony flew face first into a streetlight; he probably somehow managed to be both.

"Where in the  _fuck,"_  Tony howled as he ricocheted back, rolling on the ground. He yanked his helmet off aggressively to finish his sentence, "Did  _that_ come from?"

"Tony, stop yelling," Steve sighed, lending Iron Man a hand up, "It's early in the morning, people are sleeping."

"I will stop yelling, Steven, when poles stop attacking me!" Tony insisted, taking Steve's hand and standing up, dusting his suit off indignantly, "What kind of world do we live in where this is a problem? Loki's behind this somehow, I just know it, the asshat. That appeared out of  _nowhere!_ "

Then suddenly Steve was laughing. He wasn't entirely sure what made him laugh; that Tony was honestly insulted by a streetlight "attacking" him, that he'd just called Steve "Steven" out of the blue with such an air of high and mighty offense, or perhaps it was the simple fact that Tony was a genius of the highest caliber, creator of the most advanced suit of armor in the world, and he had  _run it into a pole._

Scratch that, it was probably all of the above.

"Frankly, your laughter is insulting. I'll have you know, this is a very serious matter. What if it's Magneto? What if he made the pole spring up, like a surprise attack to get the drop on us? You won't be laughing when we're dead, Steve. Steeeve. Steeeeeve!"

Tony was whining now, and somehow that only made Steve laugh harder.

"You're like a child, you know that?" Steve chuckled at last, "A weird, strangely intelligent, crime-fighting child."

"That's offensive."

"Oh?"

"I'll have you know, my intelligence is not at all strange."

"Your sense of humor sure is."

"Just trying to get you to crack a smile once in a while, Cap. Beginning to wonder if I'd ever see it," Tony was grinning at him then, looking oddly proud of himself, and Steve realized he was smiling too, "Hey, you done running yet? We've been out here ages."

Steve remembered the numbers then, and in the silence they surged him.  _More more more-_

"C'mon," Tony grinned, holding out a hand, "I'll give you a lift back."

"Okay."

The numbers buzzed unhappily in the back of his mind, but for once, Steve was able to ignore them.


	3. Chapter 3

Lately, Steve had been exhausted.

It was strange, because usually after his runs, he just felt…prepared. Like he had completed one part of his morning, and was now ready to tackle the next with just as much energy. He'd always been a morning person, even before his "morning" became 1:11am. Even with the little sleep he'd been getting lately, it had never really affected him. These days though, he always felt exhausted, like the world had caught up with him and was now resting on his shoulders, and he knew exactly what had caused the change.

Tony.

Frustrating, endlessly complicated, impossible to get rid of Tony. Tony made everything…difficult. So, maybe Steve had been cracking. Maybe he had been breaking down and wearing thin and always felt like he was ready to scream at the slightest provocation…he had his weak moments. That did not make him weak. He wasn't weak, he refused to be weak, wasn't that the whole point of the god damn serum, to make him strong enough to handle these sorts of things?

Regardless of how fractured he felt at times, that didn't mean he could just hand his problems over for someone else to deal with. His…problem may have been wearing him down but he was not yet weak enough to be a coward. He refused to take the coward's way out and make Tony deal with all his failings. He'd taken awful beatings from bullies in Brooklyn and come out with his bony fists still blazing, he could manage this problem on his own without drowning anyone else with him.

But Tony just had to come in and mess with everything. Steve had his routine to keep him away from the more slippery edges of sanity, his careful set of rules for interacting with the other Avengers, and his own ways of being friendly while maintaining his distance. Then, Tony had to come along with his teasing banter and deviously charming grin and his too kind, too genuine eyes and…and Steve didn't know what to think anymore.

Steve didn't know if he hated Tony or himself more for that.

Since that first day almost three weeks ago now, Tony was always suited up and waiting for him on the stairs when he left for his morning runs. Steve always pointedly ignored him, never saying a word while Tony started blabbing to him about his latest projects and what Pepper was harassing him about this week and how Bruce still wouldn't let him test the Other Guy even in controlled environments and just on and on and on, endless babble.

Steve tried to evade him. He tried taking different routes where it would be hard for the suit to follow, but Tony just used his GPS to find Steve wherever he exited. Once Tony had tried taking off the suit to follow Steve on foot, but that had ended with Tony eventually gasping for air like he was having an asthma attack and Steve eventually giving in, doubling back, and hauling Tony over his shoulder with a sigh. He'd told Tony in no uncertain terms that if he said even a  _single word_ he would be walking his sorry butt home. Tony had sassily grabbed Steve's own in reply.

Tony had walked home.

Steve's other attempts to ditch Tony hadn't worked very well either. He couldn't outrun the repulsors. He couldn't hide Tony's suit from him. He couldn't go earlier or later because when he tried, the numbers would just scream bloody murder at him. That made things worse to be honest-if he tried to mess with the routine, tried to change the time, it only made him crave Tony more. It made him weak enough that he all but  _needed_ Tony, needed his meaningless stream of words, his childlike but admittedly amusing behavior, his endless and often ridiculous attempts to get Steve to laugh…even just his presence was enough these days to make the numbers stop constricting his lungs.

And that was a very, very bad sign.

Because this wasn't Tony's problem, and Steve refused to burden him with it. Tony had plenty of his own problems; if anything, Steve should be the one helping him, certainly not the other way around. Though the man never said it outright, it was clear he had crippling self-esteem issues in spite of all his shows of egotism. Which was ridiculous, because Tony was a lot of things, but as much as Steve wanted him to stop trying to edge his way into Steve's life, Tony Stark was nothing short of amazing. In spite of this, it was so clear that Tony didn't really believe it about himself. The self-depreciating words, the way his eyes got sometimes, far away with regret and self-loathing…there was a strong part of Steve that wanted to change that. Wanted to make Tony see somehow that he…mattered, that he was wonderful and important and that somehow along the way, he had begun to mean just about everything to Steve.

But there was no way to do that without encouraging Tony to continue in his attempts to befriend Steve, and that would only end badly for the both of them.

So Steve stayed silent, careful to never do anything that encouraged Tony's presence, often actively trying to chase him away. But Tony was Tony, and it never really worked. In the past two weeks or so, Tony had started integrating himself in Steve's daily life as well. They had always fought together well, but it was after about a week or so of Tony meddling in Steve's routine that Tony started bantering with him over the comms. It carried over into debriefs, too; Tony not only started attending, but he spent them making quips to the group and passing notes to Steve he steadfastly refused to answer, however funny they could  _occasionally_ (okay, usually) be.

He used to be able to avoid Tony in the Tower, but now Steve was wondering if maybe Tony had only given him space by choice. Lately, Steve couldn't turn a corner with Tony popping up. Oddly enough, when he really was busy or working out or generally doing fine, Tony never seemed to show up. But if Steve was upset or if the numbers were giving him trouble, or, well, okay, if he  _occasionally_  got just the littlest bit lonely, Tony would be there in an instant. It was as if the man had a radar for it…knowing Tony, it wasn't impossible.

Regardless, the moment Steve was just a touch out of sorts, Tony was there talking a million miles a minute. He always gave Steve the privacy of his room, never intruding there, but if Steve was anywhere else in the Tower, it seemed to be fair game. He'd drag Steve out on some downtown adventure, always having some way to sneak them into the restaurant or art gallery or museum or whatever it was without getting noticed by the paparazzi-a talent Tony Stark seemed to have honed over the years.

Usually when Steve was feeling low, he would take to the roof for some fresh air. The view was beautiful too, so he would sit out there to read or sketch. More often than not, within a few moments Tony would appear next to him without warning, carrying a book of his own or a StarkPad, typing and configuring things with blinding speed while he talked, pulling Steve out of his mood effortlessly.

The other time Tony seemed likely to appear was if Steve was fixing something to eat in the kitchen. Tony would hop up on a counter and steal things to 'taste-test' while he chatted until Steve swatted his hand a couple times with an available utensil and eventually shooed him out. Even then, Tony would just complain that Steve didn't appreciate his 'creative input' to the meal and only move to the connected rec room. Then he'd always just turn on some movie he knew Steve wouldn't be able to resist watching, and inevitably Steve would cave and end up eating on the couch. When Steve started making enough food for them both Tony never said anything, so when Tony started making it habit sit close enough to lean against Steve during the movies, well, Steve didn't say anything either.

Steve still wasn't sure exactly how much Tony knew about his routine. Tony didn't know the extent of it, that much Steve was sure of; he couldn't possibly know how incredibly damaged Steve was, or he would have stopped talking to Steve a long time ago. Tony clearly knew certain things though. He knew that Steve went running at a certain time, and he knew that he had to run for a certain length of time, even if he went out of his way to prevent Steve from fulfilling it sometimes. He knew, then, that Steve went to sleep around 11, since JARVIS had informed him about the two hours sleep.

Regardless of the fact that he clearly knew  _some_ of Steve's routine, every once in a while, Tony would break it. Steve never knew until afterwards; they'd be out running/flying, and Tony would be talking about a movie Steve just had to see, or some new improvement on the Iron Man suit Steve had to watch him test, and before Steve knew it Tony was offering him a hand and they were flying back to the Tower. It was only after, often hours later, that Steve would emerge from the rec room or the workshop or wherever Tony had dragged him, and he would feel a tingling sensation taking over, the numbers crawling under his skin. He'd swiftly make his way to the door, inhale, lock, exhale, unlock, inhale, lock, exhale.

The numbers would leave then, silenced, and he would want to kick himself for letting Tony do it to him  _again._ Tony had been doing it increasingly often, too. Only once that first week, twice the second, three times the third…Steve hated himself for letting it happen, but he couldn't help it. He just got so caught up in the man's voice, his smile, his eyes…then he was being whisked off on some adventure before he had time to register what was going on. And God, some weak, cowardly part of him loved it. Loved that Tony could silence his demons just by opening his mouth. The coward in him wanted to let Tony fight his battles, wanted it so badly he could taste it on his tongue.

But he was Steve Rogers, and he was not a coward.

So he fought back, silenced the part of him that begged for Tony's help, and continued to push the other man away as best he could. He tried his best to stay silent when Tony followed him on his runs. He tried his best not to stay when Tony joined him on the roof. He tried his best not to be around Tony at all if he could help it. But whenever Tony wasn't around, the numbers just echoed, rattling around in his head violently until he caved, until he was weak enough to give in and let Tony chase his ghosts away for him.

Which left them with today's incident.

Today, Steve had thrown a mailbox at him-Tony had just ducked, and in a way that was just so Tony of him, shrugged it off and said, 'Okay, I deserved, that, but really, Captain, aren't you worried now that some lovelorn girlfriend won't get a letter from her heartsick soldier boy?'

Tony had just been kidding in his usual jerk way, but of course it made Steve feel awful anyway. He'd ended up spending thirty minutes making Tony fix the mailbox while he collected the runaway letters, and Tony spent the whole half hour going on about some 'Dear John'movie. Apparently it was absolutely atrocious to him but would make Steve bawl like a baby, to which Steve insisted he wasn't the innocent little girl everyone tried to make him out to be, to which Tony insisted he prove it.

Which was why they were watching 'Dear John'when Clint and Natasha filtered into the kitchen.

"This is unacceptable," Clint's blinked widely.

"Oh," Steve glanced between the TV, where John was currently making out with the blonde lead in a half-built house in the rain-which Tony informed him was 'two clichés for the price of one'-and then back at Clint, "Tony's idea."

"Steve broke a mailbox," Tony shot back, never raising his head, which had at some point Steve couldn't quite recall ended up in Steve's lap.

"Because  _you_ were being insufferable!" Steve accused.

"I'm perfectly sufferable, thank you," Tony stuck out his tongue.

"That doesn't even make sense, Tony," Steve rolled his eyes.

"It makes perfect sense. You suffer through me all the time; therefore, I'm merely sufferable, not insufferable," Tony attempted to rationalize.

"…" Steve paused, then he shook his head, "You need to sleep more. You're almost making sense."

"That's rich, coming from  _you_ ," Tony snorted, but he was grinning.

"Okay, we get it, you're married!" Clint snapped, interrupting Steve's reply, "More importantly,  _why_ is there no food? Did we finally go broke? Was it because the Hulk ate us out of house and home, or because we finally did more damage to the city than even Stark could pay for?"

"Oh please, I'm richer than god," Tony snorted, "Literally. I know two of them personally, and they barely have ten dollars between them."

"Thor and Loki don't count, I don't think they even know what a dollar is," Steve responded, tapping Tony's shoulder to let him up. He made his way to the kitchen while he replied to Clint, "Sorry, I got caught up in the movie and I forgot, I'll get started now."

"Chop chop, Captain Housewife," Tony grinned. His actual grin wasn't visible over the back of the couch, but Steve could see in the crinkles by his eyes, "You tired me out this morning, you owe me food."

Both Natasha and Clint's eyebrows shot up.

"Yep, I bet running around collecting all those letters really wore you out," Steve said hastily as he rummaged through the cupboards for cooking supplies, trying to give Tony's comment context in spite of the heat creeping to his cheeks, "Cause the mailbox broke. And there were letters everywhere. Running. To get them."

Natasha and Clint continued to stare.

"Not sex," Steve blurted at last.

"Aw, really?" Tony piped up at last, a devious glint in his eyes.

"Shut up, Tony," Steve aimed a bowl at his head. Tony ducked, but popped back up only a second later, still grinning like fox.

"I don't want to know," Natasha shook her head at last, dismissing them in favor of making her morning tea.

"We're  _not-"_

"Whatever, man," Clint shrugged in agreement, getting the orange juice from the fridge and taking a large swig, "Just keeping making breakfast. Also, please don't fuck on the couch."

"We wouldn't-we're  _not_ -I'm not even-"

"Duly ignored," Tony saluted Clint with mock seriousness.

"Tony!" Steve objected.

"What? It's a comfy couch!"

"That's not the point!"

"What are we yelling about today, boys?" Coulson entered, making a beeline for the coffee machine, "And Clint, we've talked about this, don't drink straight from the carton."

"Oh," Clint stopped gulping down the orange juice straight from the carton and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, "Yeah."

"You're disgusting, Legolas," Tony contributed, still sprawled on the couch, "How  _do_ I put up with you people?"

"You're the one that's been fucking on the communal couch," Clint just snorted as he retrieved an actual cup, "C'mon, man, sacred zone. Don't you have a respectful bone in your body?"

"Stark, I told you to keep your sexual exploits to the confines of your own room," Coulson warned sharply.

"Why are you even here?" Tony groaned, letting his head drop back onto the couch cushions, "My exploits are perfectly confined, seeing as they do not currently exist, thank you very much."

"Nice try," Coulson chuckled, taking his coffee to the table with Clint and Natasha, "I'm serious, no getting STDs on the couch."

"Be more concerned for the national icon he's fucking," Clint pointed out, and Coulson choked on his coffee.

"For the record, that still never happened," Steve threw out again as he finished scrambling the eggs, but no one seemed to be listening.

"Clause 7.2 XI B, Stark!" Coulson demanded, and Tony gave a half-groan, half-sigh that was purely Tony.

"'m nooot," he whined.

"Good," Coulson nodded, satisfied.

"Clause 7 point…two…X…B?" Steve raised an eyebrow, and finally someone acknowledged him.

"When Stark signed on with SHIELD, he was required to sign a contract that included, in Clause 7.2 XI B, that he would not defile a national icon," Natasha informed him matter-of-factly.

"Or they'd have him by the balls," Clint added gleefully.

"He'd be required to teach Basic Tech classes to our new agents for year," Coulson clarified, his lips twitching just slightly upwards as he sipped his coffee casually.

"Oh  _God_ ," Tony moaned loudly at just the thought, throwing himself face first into the couch, something like 'but they're so  _stupid'_ emitting from the pillows.

"Why on earth was that included in Tony's contract?" Steve asked as he served up the first batch of eggs, bewildered.

"Tony has a rather bad habit. We call it 'being a slut'," Clint confided.

" _Reformed_  slut, thank you," Tony huffed, hoisting himself up off and the couch and over towards the food.

"So we took precautions," Coulson shrugged, "You'd just been unfrozen, and Stark was particularly unstable at the time. We figured if you two might eventually work together, best to have some precautionary measures in place. Believe me, it was for your own safety."

"Well, that's…" Steve searched for the right word. Insulting was probably the wrong one. Disappointing most likely wouldn't be in his best interests either. Honestly, he didn't know  _what_ was up with his train of thought lately. He was too tired for this, he was letting the lines of maybe-friendship blur in his mind again, and while that was distinctly Not Good, he was too tired to fight it right now. He finally settled on a word that accurately described a lot of things in his life lately, "Weird."

"We aren't exactly known for our normalcy," Coulson shrugged in reply, and Steve couldn't help but agree.


	4. Chapter 4

Something was wrong.

Steve wasn't quite sure what it was, exactly. He'd completed his routine perfectly this morning; he'd woken up on time, brushed his teeth the right amount, run the right amount, locked the door twice, all without putting up a fight. The numbers were always an uncomfortable buzz until he finished, and his routine would most certainly never be pleasurable, but…it had been bearable.

The thing was, Steve wasn't used to bearable anymore. He was used to Tony's incessant banter chasing away the numbers, his crazy misadventures distracting Steve from…himself, his life, from the problems that plagued him. In these past weeks, Steve had almost felt normal, at least as normal as someone with his life could ever feel _._

He was acclimating to the future with Tony's help, he had a group of people he'd learned he could rely on, and he had a purpose-things to do, villains to fight, civilians to save. Yes, the numbers were a plague sent straight from hell, but…with Tony by his side, there to drag him to strange new restaurants and pass him horrendously inappropriate notes in meetings and sneak him out of boring fundraisers, to get him out of his head and into the world…well, for the first time since he'd woken up in this strange new future, Steve could honestly see himself being happy here.

So it concerned him when Tony started acting strangely.

Okay, yes, it meant the numbers were giving him more hell than usual since Tony wasn't talking over them, but it was more than that. Steve was genuinely concerned; Tony had followed him out on his run, of course, as Tony always did, but he'd been oddly…not silent, exactly-Steve wasn't sure Tony was ever silent-but quiet. Distant.

Steve found himself continuously waiting for Tony to drag him away with some half-cocked excuse of a movie to watch or a painting to go see or a back alley diner to try, but he never did. Steve found himself waiting and waiting, until he realized he was…wanting. He wanted Tony to take him by the wrist, drag him off, distract him, talk to him; he wanted Tony to  _be_ here with him, because Tony wasn't here, not really. That much was abundantly clear, and what was becoming obvious to Steve as well was that Steve  _wanted_  him to be.

He'd been trying so hard not to be friends with Tony, but maybe that wasn't the route to go. He didn't want to admit he was getting weak, or God forbid, giving in, but the truth was, he was tired. Tired of fighting all the time, tired of trying to push Tony away. Not to mention, Steve was smart enough to realize that Tony had already ruined him; he was never going to be able to just run on his own now without feeling tortured by Tony's absence.

They finished up the run, and Tony maintained his strange distance all through breakfast. The others filtered in and out, and at last, while he was washing dishes, Steve finally made himself speak up.

"Tony, are you alright?"

He received no reply, and Steve turned to repeat the question, only to find that Tony had already vanished. A little embarrassed-how long ago had Tony slipped out?-Steve went down to Tony's workshop. He keyed in his Avengers code, and the door slide back.

He paused at the sight that greeted him, and found himself overcome with guilt.

Tony was slumped over his workbench, his whole body boneless in a way that spoke of weeks of exhaustion. His mouth was open, and he was drooling onto a blueprint. One hand loosely held a wrench, while the other dangled limply over the edge of the bench. He looked mere moments from slipping off the table altogether, and Steve finally managed to bring himself to move.

He gently lifted Tony into his arms, careful not to wake him. He momentarily debated putting Tony down on the workshop couch, but decided against it, instead carrying Tony upstairs to an actual bedroom. He thought guiltily about how little sleep Tony had been getting thanks to him. Him and his…his issues, his messed up, screwed up,  _fucked up_ -

"Mm," Tony stirred in his arms, clearly sensing Steve's sudden tenseness. His forehead wrinkled in his sleep, and Steve tried his best to calm down.

"Shh," he murmured, and Tony seemed to relax again, "Go back to sleep, Tony."

No wonder Tony had been so quiet all morning; the man was exhausted, run ragged by Steve's insane schedule. This wasn't fair to Tony, Steve thought to himself miserably, and if Tony was going to insist on helping Steve, well, the least Steve could do was try and take care of Tony in return.

He tucked Tony into bed, hovering briefly over Tony's unconscious form. He brushed back soft dark hair, and, before he could overthink the impulse, bent forward to press a soft kiss to Tony's forehead.

"Goodnight, Tony," Steve murmured.

He was impossibly grateful that the dark hid the rather bright flush that colored his cheeks.

* * *

_Bright._

Steve blinked awake at the light that was streaming in, warm on his skin. There was something even warmer though, weighing down on him…wait. There really was something  _on_ him. Steve tilted his head and tried to move, but found himself pinned by the man splayed across him. His cheek was pressed to Steve's chest, where he was dozing softly and lightly drooling, and he had one hand up next to Steve's face while the other dangled off the edge. The man's face wasn't quite visible, but Steve would recognize that messy dark hair anywhere.

Tony.

Why was Tony in his bed? Steve blinked, confused a moment, before he realized he wasn't in his bedroom at all. They were on the rec room couch, and the tv had reverted to the DVD menu for a Star Wars movie. Steve remembered vague flashes of it, a movie about space and technology, and something about lightsticks and force.

It had been their fourth movie of the night. Tony, smart man that he was, had figured out all too quickly that there was more to Steve's routine than the extended morning runs. Steve had abruptly shut down any and all conversation about it, but that had only seemed to have confirmed things for Tony. Steve had hastily tried to correct him, to say there was nothing else to his routine  _to_ talk about, but Tony had only scoffed, given him a weirdly fond look, and told him that boy scouts make horrible liars.

Since then, every once in a while Tony would coerce him into movie marathons, trying to outlast Steve and figure out what Steve's night routine was. Without fail, however, Tony fell asleep before the numbers called to Steve. Tony had been getting far too little sleep long before he'd started going on mornings runs (flights?) with Steve; once he started joining Steve, his sleeping patterns were all but trashed altogether. Turning on a movie and sitting in darkness on a comfortable couch? Tony passed out long before 11:11 every time he tried.

Except, apparently, this time.

Almost immediately after the memory hit him, Steve froze. It was morning. There was sun and he was on the couch and Tony was there and his last memory was movies and his thoughts were jumbled and nonsensical but  _he had slept through his routines_ and Steve could not begin to wrap his mind around that.

His panic must have manifested itself-was he shaking? He couldn't tell, he couldn't tell, he couldn't tell, the numbers were beginning to dig their vicious claws into him, furious at being ignored-because Tony stirred. He blinked awake, drowsy for only a brief moment before he caught sight of Steve's face. It was like a bucket of water; Tony was instantly up and awake and looking at him with concern.

"Are you okay? Christ, Steve, you're hyperventilating-"

Tony seemed to keep talking, but the words blended, melding into nothing but babble.

_Lock the door, unlock the door, lock it again. Change clothes, get into bed, turn off the light, turn on the light, get out of bed, change clothes, repeat. Brush teeth, brush them again, and again. Fall asleep at exactly 11:11pm. Wake up at exactly 1:11am. Brush teeth, brush them again, and again. Run and run and run and run. Lock the door, unlock the door, lock it again._

"I'm just going to keep talking, I want you to listen to my voice, can you do that for me, Steve? Hey, focus on me, alright, I'm right here…"

He could hear someone talking, a murmur, a whisper in his mind, but it was distant, fading away as something else gripped him and dug in its claws.

_Lock the door 2 times. Change into pajamas, get in bed, turn off the light, repeat 4 times. Brush teeth 9 times. Fall asleep at 11:11pm. Wake up at 1:11am. Brush teeth 9 times. Run for 4 hours. Lock the door 2 times. Keep going, or it will leave you, and you will be alone again._

"Oh _fucking_ hell, okay, fuck, ow, bad plan, sorry. It's just me, Steve, just me…"

There was something wrong there, something wrong wrong wrong, but Steve couldn't focus on it, couldn't pull himself away from the numbered panic crawling anxiously under his skin; when he tried, the numbers just grew stronger, gripped him tighter.

_Again. Lock the door 2 times. Change clothes, into bed, light off 4 times. Brush teeth 9 times. Fall asleep 1 time. Wake up 1 time. Brush teeth 9 times. Run 4 times. Lock the door 2 times. Again, again. Keep it here, keep it with you, or it will leave forever._

"It's Tony, Steve, I'm here and I'm not leaving, you hear me? I'm not leaving, I promise, Steve, I promise you…"

Tony. He knew a Tony, somewhere in a distant place far from here. Tony was a want, too, maybe, a desire that thrummed under his skin, but that was weakness and giving in and he wanted to oh how he wanted to but he didn't know anymore, he didn't know he didn't know he didn't know-

_Again. Lock door 2 times. Change clothes, into bed, light off 4 times. Brush teeth 9 times. Fall asleep 1 time. Wake up 1 time. Brush teeth 9 times. Run 4 times. Lock door 2 times. Lock 2. Change 4. Brush 9. Sleep 1. Up 1. Brush 9. Run 4. Lock 2. Again, again, again. 2, 4, 9, 1. 1, 9, 4, 2. 2 4 9 1. 1 9 4 2. 2491. 1942. 24911942. 249119422491194224911942-_

"Steve, I'm here, you are not alone, you hear me,  _you are not alone_ -"

And with a jolt, Steve surged forward as if physically thrust back into consciousness. He struggled not to gag at the wave of nausea that hit him low in the gut. He swallowed hard and exhaled shakily, feeling himself cautiously, gently swept up into Tony's arms. He held on for all he worth, so desperate for the comfort that his hands clenched into fists that clutched Tony's shirt with white-knuckled intensity.

"Shh, hey, it's okay, Steve, it's okay, I'm here, I've got you, you're okay…"

He relaxed his hands at last, unsteadily smoothing the now ripped front of Tony's shirt. Steve didn't know how long they stayed that way; both men on their knees on the floor, Steve pulled protectively into Tony's arms. Tony moved a warm hand to the nape of Steve's neck, comfortingly carding through the ends of Steve's hair while he rested his chin on Steve's head. Steve was curled into Tony, hands now shakily brushing against the rips in Tony's shirt while he shuddered away the last of his panic.

"Sorry," Steve exhaled at long last, the word nothing more a breathless, humiliated mumble, though he couldn't bring himself to pull away quite yet.

"Don't be," Tony murmured, pressing a chaste kiss into Steve's hair, "Don't ever be."

Steve's mind was still too fogged to remind him of things like boundaries he should maintain and distances he should keep and lines he shouldn't cross. He reached up, and without even opening his eyes, tilted his head back and caught Tony's lips with his in a soft, intimate kiss.

For a brief, flicker of a moment, Tony stilled, before the hand already in Steve's hair pulled him closer. Tony ran his tongue over Steve's lower lip in askance, and Steve didn't hesitate to deepen the kiss. He pressed into Tony, his hands moving across Tony's back, his chest, his neck, his jaw, a sudden and eclipsing need to feel every inch of Tony under his hands. He reveled in the feel of Tony against him, both needy and grateful in a way he could never begin to express in words.

And for one all too brief moment, Steve was happy to let Tony chase his demons away.

When the need for air grew too important to ignore, Steve finally broke the kiss. Tony trailed after him, ducking his head to press soft, feather-light kisses along Steve's jaw, then his neck. Steve tugged Tony back up with a hand under his chin, intending to continue their previous course of action.

Steve saw Tony's face, and went ghost pale.

Tony's left eye was dark and rapidly swelling, with a blossoming purple bruise on his left temple to match. Seeing the utterly horrified look on Steve's face, Tony quickly placed a hand over Steve's.

"Just a flying elbow, you barely clipped me-"

"Half of your face is  _purple_ ," Steve hissed sharply, self-loathing clear as day on his face.

He reached out hesitantly to touch the side of Tony's face, as if entranced, only to snap his hand back and move away as quickly as he could. He held the offending hand close to his chest, as if he would destroy Tony completely by coming any closer.

"Steve, really, it's nothing-"

"That is not nothing, that's me, I-"

"No, hey, listen to me, it's not your-"

"I  _hit_  you, Tony, God, I-" Steve cut himself short, turning away and glaring a hole into the carpet, too ashamed to to continue, "Go. Go see Dr. Banner."

"Steve, I-"

"It's that or a hospital and with God as my witness, Tony, I _will_  make you go if I have to!"

Steve's words were louder, angrier than he had intended; Tony stood, and turned to go. In response, Steve could only flinch as if he'd been the one struck. Because what else could Tony's obedience mean but fear? Steve hated himself  _desperately_ for it, for instilling that sort of fear in anyone at all, especially Tony. Tony, who had seen firsthand Steve's shameful, despicable demons and still shown him nothing but kindness. Tony, who had driven him up the wall with his crazy antics, and yet somehow managed to wormed his way not just into Steve's life and mind, but into his heart. Tony, who Steve might have somehow, in spite of absolutely everything, fallen in love with.

Steve couldn't even watch Tony leave, a bitter taste in his mouth at the phrasing he'd just used.  _Make_ him. He could. He could make any of them do anything, he could manhandle and abuse and hurt and  _break_ every one of them, and he had almost done it to Tony.

What if he'd clipped Tony somewhere else? He had enough strength to do any number of things. He could bruise, fracture, break; Steve had enough strength to snap bones like twigs. How long had he been out of it, after all? It couldn't have been long, but what if it'd been longer? What if it had lasted longer, and he'd pursued Tony, lashed out and purposefully gone after him in a confused haze? He could have attacked Tony, beaten him, broken him-

In a rush, the cold truth stole every breath of air in Steve's body.

He could have killed Tony.

He hated it, and he hated himself even more for stealing that kiss. He knew now that the only reason Tony hadn't shoved him away had been fear of Steve's reaction; he'd hesitated for a moment, hadn't he? God, he'd probably thought Steve would hit him again if he didn't reciprocate. Steve wasn't sure it was possible to be a worse human being than he was right now. Then Tony, nearly out the door, spun on his heel. He didn't move from the doorway but he stared at Steve, his gaze indecipherable. After a brief moment that Steve didn't dare interrupt-hadn't he done enough?-Tony spoke.

"You were talking out loud during your panic attack. Did you know that?"

It wasn't a question, not really, but a statement, a flat statement didn't need or even really want an answer. Steve wasn't sure if he could speak if he wanted anyway; his mouth had gone dry, his heart threatening to break free of his chest with embarrassment and shame and the  _surety_ that Tony was about to tell him that it was all a mistake. That he had been a mistake.

"This is not your fault," Tony said, and it was another statement, one that held no room for argument or denial. Tony plowed on with steadfast, direct honesty, "You can stew over it, blame yourself, run away from this, whatever you want, but the truth of it is you didn't have half a clue what you were doing, you would never in a million years do it on purpose, and at the end of the day bruises heal but you know what's never going to leave me? Hearing you  _beg_ me not to leave you alone. That's why I tried to hold you in the middle of a panic attack even though I knew damn well you would probably end up lashing out, because it was worth trying."

Tony started to cross back to Steve, but Steve looked away. He couldn't bring himself to look at Tony right now, to look at Tony's beautiful face marred by  _him,_ accident or not. Tony stopped moving towards him, seeming to sense Steve guilt hadn't yet abated.

"You could've broken my ankles, and I'd have crawled right back," It was a clumsy, awkward joke, with an strong undercurrent of honesty that Steve didn't know how to feel about, "You're worth it, Steve."

With that one, soft sentence as parting, Tony left the room.


	5. Chapter 5

"Wow. Who'd _you_  piss off?"

"Now, what kind of greeting is that, Brucie-bear?" Tony grinned as he entered Bruce's lab, hopping up on the nearest lab table available, "And everything isn't always my fault, you know."

"Yet, I find that it usually is," Bruce sighed. He'd been doing a little early morning work before breakfast, but he supposed it wasn't all that urgent. Tony's shiner seemed a bit more important at the moment, "Please, go right ahead and seat yourself on my not at all important files."

"Paper files," Tony snorted derisively, though he scooted over so Bruce could pull them out and smooth them over, "Who even has those anymore? You know, I offered you more space on the Stark Server than a normal human being could use in ten lifetimes-"

"Not all of us have your love affair with technology, Tony," Bruce shook his head with a chuckle, then, with a hesitant frown, "Whoever you pissed off, they're quite the slugger."

"No fucking kidding," Tony snorted, "You wanna treat me or what, doc?"

"Well…" Bruce tilted Tony's chin with a hand, examining it from every angle, "Looks like a clean enough hit. When'd you get it?"

"Uh…bout a half hour ago? Forty tops."

"And it's already this dark?" Bruce raised an eyebrow, though he was mostly mumbling to himself, "Christ, they've got a swing. Any blurred vision?"

"For a bit. Cleared up maybe, I don't know, five minutes after I got hit."

"Headache?"

"Fucking killer."

"Neck pain?"

"Uh," Tony moved his head a bit, testing, "A bit. Not too bad though."

"This hurt?" Bruce poked a bit along Tony's cheekbone, and though he tried not to, Tony couldn't help but wince.

"Sort of," Tony admitted.

"Describe the pain."

"Painful?"

"Tony," Bruce warned in his Serious Doctor voice, then, "Sharp or dull?"

"Dull."

"Persistent or in and out?"

"Only when you poke at it like that," Tony huffed, and Bruce let his hand drop.

"Well, there's no blood in your eye, no lacerations to the skin, and it doesn't look like you fractured the cheekbone, though you bruised it pretty badly. Neck pain, even light, means you probably snapped your head back a bit too. A headache's to be expected with a blow that powerful, so that's normal, but let me know if it persists more than 48 hours. This should heal up fine on it's own, but you can speed it up by icing it for 15 minutes or so every hour."

"Thanks, Bruce," Tony nodded, moving to hop off the table.

"Hey," Bruce stopped him with a hand on his arm, "You want to give me a name?"

"It's really not a big deal," Tony waved him off, "Won't happen again."

"Hm," Bruce didn't look particularly convinced, but he shrugged, "Well. You can deflect me all day if you want, but you know Steve won't let it rest so easy."

"I think he might make an exception."

"For someone who hurt you? I wouldn't count on it."

"Bruce, it's fine. Trust me, I think Steve will let this one go-"

"No, Tony, trust  _me,"_ Bruce insisted, "I know Steve's been making a show of pushing you away, but whether he acknowledges it or not, you're his best friend. And believe you me, there is no one on the planet that gets to give Captain America's best friend a black eye and walk away without an excruciatingly long talk about their life choices that'll leave them with wet pants and potentially a shiner of their very own."

"You make a good point," Tony chuckled, "And I appreciate the thought. But really, it was my fault. I knew full well I shouldn't of touched him."

"Touched him?" Bruce gave Tony a strangely cautious look, like he'd just uncovered something fragile, "No matter what you did, Tony, you don't deserve to be hit. Never. You know that, right?"

"Oh, God," Tony groaned, "No. No, that is not even-I am not being physically abused by my not-boyfriend, okay? Trust me on this one."

"Not-boyfriend? You aren't even seeing the guy, then?"

"Sort of. Maybe. Trying to. He's been stubborn about it, but that's not the point-"

"If he felt that way about you, he wouldn't hit you."

"For fuck's sake, it was not his fault," Tony rolled his eyes, exasperated, "Christ, you should have seen his face, Bruce. He…I won't have you or anyone else making him feel worse about it than he already does. It was an accident, he's beyond sorry, my face will heal, and I don't want to hear another word about it."

"We'll see," Bruce hummed noncommittally.

Tony made a frustrated grunting sort of noise in reply, and huffily stomped his way out of Bruce's lab. Bruce sighed, but decided not to dwell on it too much. If Tony didn't believe him, fine. Hopefully such a thing wouldn't happen again, but…well. As much as Tony still liked to think himself some sort of lone gunslinger, there was no shortage of people that had a, as Natasha would put it, "a vested interest in Stark's well-being".

If Clint heard someone had been beating Tony? For all his and Tony's pranks and banter, given a name, Clint would be more than eager for some target practice. Natasha's methods would likely involve torture, Thor's wrath would be something fearsome, Bruce wasn't too sure the Other Guy was particularly pleased about this turn of events either, and Coulson would most certainly be in the background organizing every bit of it and burning the evidence.

Not to mention, God help the man if Pepper ever heard of it.

For all Pepper's threats against Tony's well-being should he miss another board meeting, it was clear to see she harbored a soft spot for the eccentric genius. But then, didn't they all? Tony could be annoying and arrogant and had the ability to drive the calmest person on the planet up-the-wall crazy, but there was something about him. An altruistic kindness he brushed off as nothing, a selflessness that had saved the world on more than one occasion, a vulnerability he played close to his chest.

Tony Stark was one hell of a man, and woe be it to the person who didn't appreciate that.

* * *

Steve was still sitting on the floor of the rec room when Natasha and Clint entered the adjoining kitchen. He was leaning against the foot of the couch, and though he was technically hidden from view, he felt no need to announce his presence. He was quite sure the superspies knew.

"Steeeve," Clint whined, proving Steve's assumption true, "Why is there no breakfast?"

"I…well. Busy morning," Steve said at last. The understatement was almost laughable, but Steve wasn't in the mood to discuss the events of this morning; he'd already replayed it over in his mind at least a hundred times in the ten minutes since Tony had left.

"Is this going to be a thing? Am I going to have to cook my own food now? Because that is so not what I signed on for."

"You didn't sign on for anything," Natasha pointed out as went about making herself tea while Clint rummaged through the fridge for his precious orange juice, "Stark gave you a floor free of charge."

"And as long as I have lived here, that has included a Capsicle-cooked breakfast."

"He doesn't actually owe you food, you know."

"I like my pancakes freedom-flavored," Clint shrugged, grabbing the orange juice carton marked 'CLINT MOTHERFUCKING BARTONS' out of the fridge.

Steve began cooking while Natasha and Clint talked amongst themselves. Usually Steve contributed to the conversation a bit more, but today his thoughts were very distinctly elsewhere. The perceptive duo probably noticed, but didn't think to comment on it. They all had their rough days; none of them had what you could call easy pasts, and every once in a while, there were days they dwelled on it. Unless it was serious, they gave each other the space they needed, and it was something Steve found himself grateful for. Over time, Coulson and Thor both trickled in, and they were all eating when Bruce poked his head in at last.

"Tony here?"

An assortment of shaking heads gave him his answer.

"Good. I need to talk to you all without him," Bruce took a seat at the table.

"Has Anthony invoked your ire?" Thor questioned.

"Did he change your background to porn again and lock you out of changing it?" Clint snickered.

"No," Bruce coughed, "He didn't, and I'm not mad at him-"

"Gay porn?"

"No, there's no porn, Clint, I-"

"Damn."

"Clint, I need you serious for a minute," Bruce shot Clint a look, "Tony came down to my lab a little while ago sporting the worst black eye I think I've ever seen."

Just like that, the air left Steve's lungs.

"Damn," Clint whistled, while Natasha gave a small snort of laughter, "Someone finally clocked Stark?"

"While I'm curious who he drove to the point of physical violence this time, I'm not overly surprised it occurred," Coulson continued eating his cereal without fanfare, "What has you concerned?"

"I brushed it off at first too," Bruce agreed, "It's not as I've never had the urge when he really gets going. But when I asked who hit him, he started talking about how it was his fault. Something about a 'not-boyfriend'?"

Steve resisted the urge to smile; it wasn't funny, but it was just such a Tony phrase Steve couldn't stop his lips from quirking up just a bit.

"I'm not entirely sure what he was talking about," Bruce continued, "But…he seemed edgy, like he was hiding something. I wanted to ask if any of you've noticed anyone new hanging around lately?"

For some reason Steve couldn't fathom, Bruce looked directly at Steve when he asked his question. The Avengers all shook their heads, but everyone seemed to be looking at Steve, so he answered out loud.

"I haven't seen anyone new around," Steve answered slowly, careful to stick to the truth.

"I tried asking JARVIS who hit Tony," Bruce started, and Steve almost swallowed his tongue, "But I only get..."

He trailed off, waving a hand at the ceiling, and JARVIS provided the answer.

"That is a question for sir. I recommend, however, that you do not ask. There are extenuating circumstances, and pursuing a line of questioning that suggests abuse will only serve to anger him, as he was not abused."

Of all the new technology Steve had encountered in the future, JARVIS was totally his favorite.

"It's possible," Bruce nodded, conceded to JARVIS' words, "It's entirely possible. I don't want to make this a bigger deal than it needs to be, I just wanted you all to be aware of the situation. And if any of you can find out who Tony's 'not-boyfriend' is, more power to you."

"I shall find this man, and he shall rue the day he laid a hand on Anthony," Thor declared, his voice a bit less deafening than normal, and all the more terrifying for it. Outside, thunder sounded, and Steve resisted the urge to flinch.

"Let's calm down with the thunder and lightning there, Pikachu, it's just a bruise. And he rues the day enough without you all butting your noses into it."

_Tony._

"Hey, Stark, I think you're supposed to put makeup on both sides of your face," Clint offered innocently, "We appreciate the effort to cover up your ugly mug, though."

"Funny, Barton. A shiner might improve your looks too, come to think of it. We could be black eye buddies, what do you say?" Tony shot him a quirk of a grin as he headed for the coffee machine.

"Pass. Sides, I don't think you could give me one quite like that. Whoever gave that thing to you is packing some serious muscle. You know, maybe he could give me some workout tips sometime?"

"Subtle, Clint, real subtle," Tony snorted.

"Anthony, do you not wish to pursue justice against he who has done you wrong?" Thor inquired gravely.

"He hasn't done me any wrong, Thor," Tony shrugged casually, but his voice was tight, no room for argument.

The others continued trying to convince him to give them a name anyway, but Tony stayed mum. He simply laughed them all off with snarky jokes as usual while he waited for his coffee. Steve was quiet, nothing to say, and though Tony was too smart to look at Steve just then, Steve couldn't help looking at him. Tony's eye was a little darker than when he'd left, and Steve felt the burning shame of what he'd done, accident or not. Tony though, for his part, truly didn't seem to think it was Steve's fault.

"Accidents happen," Tony was still trying to play off casual, but his posture was tight, defensive. He tried to make it a joke, "You know how it goes-one minute you're rolling around in the sheets having a grand old time, next minute someone's getting an elbow to the face."

Steve promptly choked on his food.

"Did I offend your delicate sensibilities, Cap?" Tony grinned, taking advantage of finally having a reason to look at him.

"Wrong pipe," was all Steve managed.

"And here we were all so proud of you for the 'reformed' part of your playboy status," Coulson sighed.

"I am reformed," Tony answered, a bit too quickly to just be assuring the group. He darted a glance at Steve, looking away before anyone else noticed. Nothing escaped Natasha though, who followed his gaze with narrowed, perceptive eyes.

"So, what, you're saying your not-boyfriend who hits you and clearly doesn't even love you enough to become a yes-boyfriend is special enough to warrant your celibacy?" Clint challenged.

"There are some things worth waiting for," Tony hummed, his voice light, but layered with an undertone of sincerity Steve couldn't quite wrap his head around.

"You really think he's worth that?"

"He's worth everything," Tony's voice was bluntly honest, no room for question or argument.

The memory of their kiss came to Steve's mind unbidden; the feel of Tony's lips on his, Tony's calloused fingers carding through his hair, the deep  _need_ that had eclipsed his every other thought until all he could see and breathe and want was  _Tony._  Tony with him, Tony against him, Tony under him, blotting out all the numbers and the routines and the pain. Tony, who always managed to make even the worst days better, who Steve trusted more than anyone, who honestly believed Steve was worth everything.

Who deserved so much more than Steve could ever give him.

"And what does he think you're worth?" Bruce looked conflicted, concerned, "To do this sort of thing to you?"

"Seriously, do I need to get out a dictionary? Because none of you seem to understand the meaning of the word accident."

"You're deflecting again," Clint pointed out.

"Not to mention none of us have so much as seen the man," Coulson raised an eyebrow, clearly not believing a word, "I hardly find that to be a sign of good intentions."

"What can I say? He's too precious for this world," Tony batted his eyelashes innocently.

"Don't quote Supernatural at me."

"You know we're going to find out, Tony," Bruce reasoned.

"Nah, c'mon," Tony laughed, though it was strained, lacking his usual easy humor, "A guy can't have a few secrets?"

"Not you. Secrets with you usually lead to explosives, kidnappings, or technological devices with minds of their own," Coulson pointed out dryly.

"For the last time, I did not give the DVR artificial intelligence, it spawned that all on it's own-"

"Do  _not_ even start with me, Stark."

"I told you I didn't-"

"It's a DVR. It did not spawn artificial intelligence."

"Hey, he's not an it. Besides, who cares how he came to be? Barton and Thor totally love him now."

"Verily. I much like the small device with sassy opinions," Thor nodded his agreement between his sixteenth and seventeenth poptarts of the morning.

"We are not getting into this again," Coulson sighed.

Then Natasha, who had been mostly silent, spoke up.

"Stark, like it or not, you're one of ours. We're not going to forget about this if you make enough jokes. We're going to find this man, and I for one am going to break his kneecaps if you don't give me very good reason not to."

"You want a good reason?" Tony snapped, clearly upset that the conversation had now turned to threats, "When he looks at me, I feel like I matter. Like I mean something to him, that he trusts me, that I'm actually able to _help_ him, even if it's just a little bit. And you know what? If nothing happens between us again, as long as I helped him that little bit, then that is worth absolutely everything else. He," Tony stood, looking at Steve sharply, "Is worth  _everything_  that comes with being with him. Including the occasional stupid, accidental black eye. Now you can whisper about it behind my back all you want, but I don't want to hear another fucking word on the subject."

With that, Tony stormed out of the room. There was a very long moment of silence, and not a single person missed the fact that the caffeine-addicted Tony had been so upset with them that he hadn't even waited for his coffee.

"I'll take it to him," Steve said quietly, standing.

"You've been quiet," Natasha commented, her tone utterly devoid of anything that would tell Steve what she meant by it.

"Maybe we should have followed his example," Bruce sighed, "That didn't exactly go well."

"Things involving Stark rarely do," Coulson sighed, but his voice was more fondly exasperated than anything else, "Natasha, Clint, I want you both keeping extra watch over the entrance points. I don't think whoever did this has been here before or we would have known, but he might swing by to apologize, and if he does I want him intercepted. I'll get my hands on the recording of this mess and run his face through the system for an ID-"

"I'm sorry, but sir has already deleted the recordings you speak of, Agent."

JARVIS, Steve noted, did not sound very apologetic at all. He wondered what it meant that an exceptionally intelligent supercomputer seemed to think he'd done nothing wrong. Tony clearly didn't either, but his judgement could be compromised by the situation. But if JARVIS didn't...well. It  _had_  been an accident, after all. That certainly didn't mean Steve felt much better about having done it, but he was beginning to wonder if maybe it was something he could atone for.

He wanted Tony, wanted to be with him; he knew that, knew it all too well, but his demons still gave him pause. How could they ever have a normal relationship, when Steve couldn't even function on his own? But…Tony did already deal with most of it on a daily basis. Not to mention, he'd dealt with the worst panic attack Steve had had to date, and come out of it kissing him, insisting Steve was worth it.

But.

What of his night routine? If he started something more with Tony, eventually Tony would learn about it. It wasn't that Steve didn't want to sleep with Tony; he did, there was no denying that, no denying the near  _need_ that had coursed through him when he'd kissed Tony that morning. But if they started to sleep together, Tony would learn his night routine.

What would Tony think, seeing that? Would the man's seemingly infinite kindness run dry? Would he finally begin to realize how absolutely fucked up Steve really was? Would he even want anything to do with Steve anymore? He didn't want to put Tony in that position, and honestly, he wasn't entirely sure he could handle losing Tony when he found out-no.

He  _knew_  he couldn't.

"Nothing's ever easy with him, is it?" Coulson sighed, "Fine. Hopefully he comes by to apologize, and if he doesn't, well, Stark's going to want to see him sometime. He leaves, I want one or both of you following him. Captain, see what you can get out of him when you give him his coffee, would you?"

"He didn't seem particularly open to discussion," Steve answered with a tired sigh, going to open the freezer. He ignored the small spike of panic the icy chill gave him, reached in and pulled out one of the ice packs they kept on hand.

"I'm sure he's not," Coulson agreed, "But if anyone can get a name from him, it would be you."

Steve hummed noncommittally, pouring the now ready coffee into Tony's favorite mug, taking that and the ice pack with him down to Tony's workshop. He keyed in the Avengers code, blinking in surprise when it was denied. He paused a moment, then tried his personal code; the light turned green.

Steve didn't know what to think about that.

When he entered the workshop, Tony had his back to him. He was playing with the holoscreens blown up large in front of him, an enlarged and highly annotated diagram of Iron Man on the left and a complex screen of numbers and diagrams on the right. He flicked his fingers, clearly not having noticed Steve's presence, moving things around in ways Steve didn't even try to understand. He placed the coffee on Tony's main desk, but the small clink didn't distract Tony from his work either, and he jumped when Steve delicately pressed the ice pack to Tony's cheek.

"You should ice it," Steve murmured.

Tony's hand came up to hold the pack himself, fingers brushing against Steve's. Steve quickly dropped his hand, already moving back and away. Tony turned in an instant, but Steve was already backing away.

"I should go-"

"No, Steve, wait…please," the word was soft, nearly desperate, and Steve felt his resolve melt.

"Tony…"

"Not over this," Tony pleaded.

"What?"

"Walk away because I'm an ass. Walk away because I'm dysfunctional as all hell. Because I talk too much and too loud, because I work more than is healthy and never eat anything but coffee and only sleep when I physically pass out and I'm arrogant and annoying and messy; you have a million and one reasons to walk away, and I wouldn't begrudge you any of them. Not one," Tony promised, "Just…please. Not over this stupid mess."

"Tony-"

"No, listen-I'm not always a very good person, Steve, but you make me want to be. You make me…you make think I  _can_ be," Tony looked at him in a way that would be shy on anyone else, but on Tony was just earnest, bordering on hopeful, "I would be, for you."

"Tony, you're already a good person. You're the single kindest, most selfless person I've ever met. To the point of ridiculousness," Steve shook his head, but he couldn't help the hint of a smile, "To the point that it occasionally drives me crazy."

"Steve…" Tony smiled back, a bit ruefully, "I know you think you can handle everything on your own. I know you think relying on someone is some kind of weakness, but it's not _._ It's human, and you  _deserve_  someone to lean on, someone to help you. I would do anything to be that someone for you, you have to know that, but you deserve someone better and if that's what you want that's fine, I just-"

"I don't want anyone else."

The brief silence that followed his words told Steve he'd managed to catch Tony off-guard. He pressed forward, taking advantage of Tony's temporary silence.

"It's always been you, Tony," Steve murmured, taking a small step forward, "Just seeing you makes everything a little easier. When you're with me, I feel…stronger, somehow. Like with you there, I might be okay. And I thought that was bad, was a weakness, because for so long, _nothing_  was okay. You were all here, I know, but I was still felt so alone it  _hurt,_ and I thought I was, I am, fucked up, and after everything I'd gone through to be strong, to be better than this, I still felt so _pathetic_ …"

There was an anger in him, bubbling just under the surface, memories of all the times he'd felt alone and different and nothing but a burden to everyone. He'd always been weak in body and strong in mind, and then he woke up in the future and everyone he knew was dead and suddenly he was strong in body and weak in mind and he'd never felt so out of place, so strange and wrong and-

Tony's arms were around him then, holding him tight, and Steve realized he'd been shaking. He still was, but he clung to Tony anyway, let Tony lead him to the couch in the workshop. Let Tony pull him into his lap, Steve's back against Tony's chest. Let Tony wrap his arms around Steve tight, lacing his fingers with Steve's. He pressed a kiss to the back of Steve's head, murmuring into his hair.

"You," Tony murmured, punctuating his words with kisses pressed to the back of Steve's head, "Are not. Pathetic. You, Steve Rogers, have never been pathetic in your life."

Steve gave a choked sort of laugh, but Tony just continued more forcefully.

"I mean it. You were a hero when you faced bullies in back alleys, you're a hero when you save the world every other week, and you are a hero when you fight your damned hardest to get through the day. You're the strongest man I know, Steve, and I don't mean your muscles."

"Doesn't feel like it sometimes," Steve said softly.

"We help you save the world; doesn't mean you couldn't save it on your own, but it makes it easier. I want to help you with this. It doesn't mean you can't do it own your own, it means I want to make it easier on you. Seeing you struggle with this, watching you pull the suffer in silence shtick? I hate it, Steve," Tony's words are vehement, and Steve can feel Tony's breathing against his back, sharp and angry, "I  _hate_ it."

There's a long moment where Steve doesn't say anything. Tony stays curled around him, not seeming to need an answer, just occasionally pressing another kiss into Steve's hair.

"Please, Steve…let me help you," Tony's words are soft, pleading.

Steve still didn't know how to make this work. He didn't know how he would keep Tony safe, didn't know how he'd keep from lashing out in a panic again, didn't know what he would do if Tony found his struggles so daunting that he gave up on Steve.

He did know he couldn't bring himself to shut Tony out anymore.

I have…" Steve swallowed; he'd never said it out loud before, never dared, "There's been these...numbers. Since I woke up."

Steve didn't have to say it; they both knew he meant from under the ice. Tony didn't say a word, just pulled Steve closer against him, silently offering his support. There was no pressure for Steve to go on, so he took a moment and a deep breath before continuing.

"They're…in my mind. I know they are, I've…looked into it, with JARVIS' help. It's, OCD, is what it's called. And these numbers, it's like they're…inside me, not just my mind, but under my skin and in my veins and making me do things, insane, stupid things that have no purpose, just…irrational. Compulsive, I guess, is the word for it. I could never ignore them or put them off, that just made it…louder, somehow. And I know that doesn't…make sense, really, but that's what it felt like, that and painful, just… _agonizingly_  painful…"

Steve trailed off, retreating for a moment, collecting himself. Tony let out an unsteady breath, pressing more kisses into Steve's hair, his shoulder, his neck, everywhere Tony could reach.

"After a while, I stopped trying," Steve said at last, "I just…gave up. I did what I had to, but...it was still killing me. I still felt…broken. I wanted to…to  _scream._ I wanted to scream and never stop, wanted to lash out, to hurt something like I was hurting because I was trapped in this…this  _thing_ I didn't even understand, because it doesn't make  _sense,_ nothing about this makes sense, and then suddenly…there was you."

Steve let out a breath, a wistful, remembering smile on his face.

"I felt so alone, drowning in my own failures, and then out of nowhere…there you were, and suddenly I wasn't alone anymore. You started flying with me and I was annoyed as heck at first, but you were funny and charming and a little bit ridiculous, and when you talked the numbers just…melted away. And whenever I needed someone you were always just  _there_ , somehow, without my ever saying a word, and somewhere along the way I just...gave in, let myself get swept up in the whirlwind that was  _you."_

Steve turned in Tony's arms, turned until they were facing each other. Tony watched him, listening, not with the pity or disgust he'd feared of, but compassion. Like Tony always seemed to, it gave him strength.

"I let myself fall in love with you."


	6. Chapter 6

Not even a split second passed before Tony's lips collided with Steve's, kissing him hungrily. Tony kissed him until he couldn't breathe, and Steve pulled away only for a gulp of air and a question.

"Does that mea-?"

" _Yes._ "

Tony interrupted with the briefest answer possible before grabbing Steve by the collar of his shirt and dragging him back down into a rough kiss. Well. Steve could certainly go along with that. He caught Tony's lip in his teeth in a way that made Tony arch approvingly under him and grip Steve's hair a bit tighter. There was a brief battle of tongues before Steve made himself pull away, licking his lips.

"But, Tony-"

"Okay, is this gonna be a thing, you pulling away when I'm trying to kiss you senseless? Because seriously, I'm starting to get offended."

"Tony," Steve mumbled softly, "I've already hit you once, what if-?"

"Does it  _look_  like I care? Steve, I've seen people have panic attacks before, hell, I've  _had_ panic attacks before. I knew you would hit me, I touched you anyway. An argument could be made that I hit myself, I just used your hand."

Steve tried and failed not to crack a smile at that.

"That," Tony declared, "Is why I love you."

"What?" Steve blinked, unsure what he'd done, but his smile only grew at hearing Tony say those words for the first time.

"That is probably the stupidest joke I've ever told, and you smiled anyway."

" _That's_ why?"

"There's a lot of reasons why," Tony shrugged, leaning up and kissed Steve again softly, briefly, before pulling away just barely to murmur, "Get used to hearing them."

Steve closed the gap again, descending on Tony with a passion. This only lasted so long, however, before their squirming bodies accidentally sent them both rolling off the couch. Steve landed on his back, Tony straddling his lap.

"Oof," Steve huffed as he hit the floor.

"Got a little excited there, did you?" Tony gave a little laugh, stretching out languidly on top of Steve, crossing his arms on Steve's chest and resting his chin there, "So you really think you love me, huh?"

"Nope," Steve smiled softly, wrapping his arms around Tony's waist, leaning up for a brief, chaste kiss, "I know I do."

"Hmm," Tony hummed thoughtfully, "You know, I'm not generally considered particularly good relationship material."

"Defending our not-relationship in the kitchen was pretty solid of you," Steve chuckled.

"I'll annoy you," Tony warned.

"I'd be worried if you didn't."

"I cling like an octopus in my sleep."

"Good, you're warm."

"You'll have to fist fight me for the remote."

"I'll even let you win sometimes."

"I won't ever remember your birthday."

"I never liked birthday parties anyway."

"Or allergies."

"Don't have any."

"Or when I need things like food and sleep."

"Pretty sure I can bodily carry you out of here with one hand."

"I can't turn off my flirting."

"It's who you are."

"And you love me."

"I do."

"I love you."

"I know."

Tony kissed him again, this time with a tenderness most people assumed Tony Stark was incapable of. Steve knew better. They kissed slowly, languidly, with a very intimate sort of comfortableness. Steve shifted to sit up, his back against the couch as he moved his hands to Tony's waist and pulled him in closer. Tony straddled Steve, releasing his grip on Steve's shirt to move his arms around Steve's neck.

They stayed in the workshop for a very, very long time.

* * *

"Do you think Tony's telling him?"

"Hm?" Natasha glanced up from her book to look at Clint, who was channel surfing boredly. Bruce was on the opposite couch, reading as well, Thor had disappeared to the gym, and Coulson was off in a meeting with Fury about some new spandex-clad spider guy who'd shown up in Midtown to stop a robbery that morning.

"Steve. He's been down there like an hour, you think he convinced Tony to drop this other guy, or what?"

"Oh, Clint," Natasha sighed, flicking to the next page, "I'm disappointed in you."

"Me?" Clint squawked indignantly, "What'd I do?"

"Just don't go to Tony's workshop for a while."

"Why?"

"Think very hard, Clint," Natasha rolled her eyes.

Clint paused in his channel surfing to squint at her suspiciously.

"…Steve knows who it is?" Clint guessed at last.

"He's quite aware."

"What makes you say that?" Bruce commented, looking up from his own book with surprise.

"Don't tell me you didn't notice his silence earlier."

"He looked all…" Clint waved his hand, making a face, "Broody. I thought he was fantasizing about murdering the asshole. I was."

"Steve's hardly one to jump to murder," Natasha flicked another page, "I suspect he'd be more likely to give them a long, uncomfortable chat about their life choices and then keep them very, very far from Tony's person in the future."

"But he didn't want a name," Bruce mused.

"No he did not."

"And that means…" Clint squinted in thought again.

"He knows who it is," Bruce finished in surprise, "But he didn't say anything. Why?"

"Doesn't he care?" Clint frowned.

"He took Tony an ice pack without prompting," Natasha reminded Clint, "Not the move of a man who doesn't care."

"He believes Tony's accident story, then," Bruce concluded thoughtfully.

"And why do you think he believes him?"

"He saw it?" Clint realized.

"Obviously."

"But he didn't tell us," Bruce looked on the brink of figuring something out.

"No."

"Why?" Clint pestered.

"Think about it," Natasha rolled her eyes.

" _He_ hit Tony?" Bruce blurted in surprise, the first to come to the correct conclusion.

"There you go," Natasha nodded in approval.

" _He's the not-boyfriend?_ " Clint yelped.

"Good for you, Clint," Natasha snorted delicately.

"Why am I always the last to know these things?" Clint complained.

"Thor and Coulson don't know," Bruce pointed out.

"True, Thor doesn't know," Natasha shook her head, "But I'm quite sure Coulson figured it out sometime after he left."

"You think?"

"It's Coulson," Clint rolled his eyes in agreement.

"Wait, I'm confused," Bruce held up a hand, "Why on Earth would Steve hit Tony?"

"My best guess would be a panic attack of sorts," Natasha mused, "Stark can be annoying, but he and Steve are nowhere near antagonistic enough to bring Steve to blows."

"Tony did say it was an accident," Bruce remembered, "Actually, in my lab, he said something about how he 'should've known better than to touch him'."

"Sounds right," Natasha nodded, "Something probably triggered a flashback for Steve, Stark stupidly tried to hold him, and Steve lashed out."

"Super strength, super black eye," Clint winced, "That had to hurt like a bitch."

"I imagine," Natasha agreed dryly, "But Tony doesn't hold it against Steve, so I suggest we don't either. I'm quite sure Steve feels guilty enough."

"They've been down there an hour and a half, I think Tony's managed to ease his conscious by now," Clint snorted.

"I doubt they're still talking about it," Natasha said, "But I don't think Steve's conscious will be at ease for a while."

"Steve's eventually going to come in here and want to talk it out, isn't he?" Clint made a face, "Apologize and whatever."

"I would assume so," Natasha hummed her agreement, her focus already back in her book.

* * *

Two hours later-two hours Clint very much  _did not_ want to know how Tony and Steve spent-Steve was the first to find the group in the rec room. Thor had joined them an hour ago, and they were now watching Jersey Shore with varying degrees of interest; Thor and Clint with rapture, Natasha slyly out of the corner of her eye, and Bruce trying and failing to pretend not to.

Coulson had finally returned from his meeting as well, muttering something about idiot teenagers, and joining them on the couch after making a bowl of popcorn. As Natasha had predicted, he too had ascertained the nature of what had really happened to Tony, and spent a full five minutes grouched about how 'the emotionally-stunted idiots could have just  _said_ something'.

When Steve entered, it was with a kicked-puppy look and Tony two steps behind him.

"There's something we need to talk to you all abo-"

"Shh, not now!" Clint shushed him, waving a distracted hand without taking his eyes off the TV, "We're in the middle of Snooki's baby shower."

"Barton, I told you you're not allowed to watch that trash on my TV," Tony huffed, "Besides, I thought the DVR was censoring you."

"The device hath given it's permission!" Thor announced jubilantly.

"I'm afraid so, sir," JARVIS confirmed.

"We're calling him Lil Pauly D now, or D for short, cause it turns out he's a Shore fan," Clint added with a grin.

"That is so unacceptable I can't even count the ways," Tony groaned.

"Your fault it exists in the first place," Coulson took the opportunity to point out.

"Lies," Tony denied cheerfully.

"Clint, would you please pause it a moment?" Steve just insisted over the chaos, and Clint consented with a sigh.

"C'mon, mom, I don't need to hear about your birds and bees," Clint complained.

"You…what did you call me?" Steve blinked.

"Well, you're the one who assigns chores and cooks us breakfast and makes sure we see medical after big fights; Tony's the one who builds fancy new equipment to keep us safe and buys ridiculously expensive gifts we don't need and sneaks us out of medical when they're being obnoxious. It's kind of obvious who's the mom."

" _You sneak them out of medical?"_

"See if I ever help you again, Barton," Tony hissed, betrayed.

"Oops."

"He wasn't  _really_ injured," Tony hastily added, talking to Steve now, "Just an teensy tiny sprain."

"Tony," Steve just sighed, "We're talking about that later."

"I believe your line is 'yes, dear'," Coulson smirked at Tony.

"You don't even live here," Tony scowled.

"Are we sure about that?" Bruce mused.

"As if I would want to live with you super-human pain-in-the-asses," Coulson just snorted, not quite a no.

"Wait, rewind. You all…know?" Steve paused, clearly confused, "About me and Tony?"

"Uh, yeah, old news," Clint waved a hand with a snicker, "Three hours though, seriously? What are you guys, teenagers?"

Steve's face turned a rather interesting shade of red.

"I said it was worth waiting for, didn't I?" Tony just grinned, and Steve elbowed him while Clint made exaggerated retching noises.

"TMI, dude."

"You asked," Tony just shrugged.

"I teased; huge difference," Clint shook his head, "Asking means wanting to know things, teasing means I enjoy laughing at the vague concept. I'd prefer if we kept it  _very_ vague, thanks."

"Clint, leave them alone and watch your show," Natasha rolled her eyes.

"You just want me to turn it back on," Clint turned to Natasha with a smirk, "You liiike it."

"It stops you from talking," Natasha clarified, "It's wonderful."

"Whatever," Clint stuck out his tongue.

"What they mean to say is congratulations," Bruce translated with a smile, "And so do I. Sorry about earlier."

"It was my fault, I should have said something," Steve shook his head, "The topic just jumped to abuse so fast, and I-"

"Would never in a million years," Tony finished for him firmly, "So it's a non-issue."

"Never," Steve repeated, mostly to himself.

"Nice to, uh," Tony tried to make it a joke, give a cheeky grin, but it came off a bit embarrassed instead, "Know you all care, though."

"Of course we do," Natasha smirked fondly, then, in Russian, "дурак."

"That would mean idiot," Coulson translated, "And I agree with both sentiments."

"Never doubt it," Bruce smiled.

"Your well-being is of most import to us, Anthony," Thor beamed, "It is as Natasha said earlier this morn; you are one of our own."

"And we're a bunch of fuckballs, but you better believe we look out for our own," Clint grinned.

"Should we be, like, group hugging now or something? Cause this is straight out of a sitcom," Tony snorted, "Or badly written fiction."

"He means thank you," Steve translated with a smile.

"Good, because I think if you two hugged me after what you've been doing in Tony's workshop, I might catch an STD," Clint made a gagging face.

"Why do people keep assuming I have STDs?" Tony complained at the same time Steve objected with a strangled sort of sound, " _Clint!"_

"That reminds me," Coulson added, "Stark, I already spoke with Fury. Your first class is next Wednesday at 8am. Agent-in-training Lewis in particular is looking forward to your presence."

"Class?" Tony raised an eyebrow, then, suddenly, going ghost pale, "No."

"Oh  _fuck_ yes!"

Clint cheered, eyes lighting up. Coulson just gave a gloating smirk, while Natasha snickered into her book and Bruce gave in to an amused snort of laughter. Thor and Steve remained confused, while Tony remained utterly horrified.

" _Tell me you're joking."_

"You know I don't joke, Stark."

"Coulson," Tony begged, horror evident on his face, "Coulson, for the love of god, man, have  _mercy._ "

"I don't understand," Steve looked between the two.

"This  _asshat_ wants me to teach tech classes to idiots, as if that's not insulting and degrading and oh  _god_ this is going to be  _awful!"_ Tony moaned, collapsing on the couch, dramatically face-planting into a pillow.

"The contract," Steve's eyes widened in realization, "What, uh…what exactly was the clause?"

"Clause 7.2 XI B states," Coulson recited, "That should Anthony E. Stark defile a national icon–prime and explicitly stated example being Steven G. Rogers-he would be legally obligated to teach Basic Technology to our Junior Agents for one year."

"First of all, it's insulting that you made that decision without me. Second, he didn't, er…" Steve trailed off, squirming uncomfortably, "Well. Technically speaking, he didn't, uh, break the clause."

"Holy fuck," Tony's startled, muffled curse could be heard through the pillows. He sat up in flash, bouncing back over the couch to grab Steve by the face and yank him into a fierce, happy kiss, " _God_ , I love you."

"What just happened?" Coulson frowned, looking between the two of them, suspicious of Tony's reaction.

"I'm dating a fucking genius, that's what happened!" Tony crowed.

"Tony," Steve bit his lip to keep from smiling, but Tony just grinned wider.

"No, no, go on. Tell them. Sweet baby jesus, this is gonna be good."

" _Tony,"_ Steve warned, a light blush on his cheeks now, but he continued on, "Well. The clause is if  _he '_ defiles'  _me,_ right?"

There was brief period of silence.

"Oh  _GOD,_ " Clint's strangled yelp was the first to break it, and he covered his ears with a groan.

"Well," Bruce slammed his book closed suddenly, his face uncomfortably pale as he retreated from the room, "I'm going to go see if I can mix a chemical compound that will work as brain bleach, you all have fun with the rest of this conversation."

"Sorry, Brucie-bear!" Tony called after him, but his voice was far too gloating to be sorry.

"No, you're not," Bruce called back with a sigh.

"No, I'm not," Tony hummed his agreement, then, snickering to Steve, "I think you broke Coulson's brain."

"No  _fuck_ you broke his brain," Clint snapped grumpily, "Assholes."

"Um," Steve glanced at the agent, who sat very still, eyes closed, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

"As much as I  _profoundly_ did not want to know that that, I admit you make a good point," Coulson opened his eyes, glaring at Tony, "Regardless, so help me, Stark, you are teaching that class."

"What?" Tony yelped, " _Why?"_

"Consider it revenge for subjecting me to knowledge of your sex life."

"I hate you."

"The feeling is most decidedly mutual."

* * *

"So what's next?" Tony asked, stifling a yawn from his position in Steve's lap, "You feeling another adventure movie, or what?"

It was around 10 at night, and they were cuddled up on the couch in the rec room, the credits on the Indiana Jones movie they'd just watched starting to roll. Tony relaxed between Steve's legs comfortably, his head nestled in the crook of Steve's shoulder. Their fingers were entwined, and Steve squeezed Tony's lightly.

"You're tired."

"Nothing new there," Tony chuckled.

"Sleep, then."

"…" Tony went still in his arms, clearly wrapped up in his thoughts, and Steve squeezed his hand again in prompting. When Tony spoke, he was uncharacteristically quiet, "I don't want to push you-and don't think that just because we're dating now you owe me anything, because you don't-but I meant it when I said I wanted to help you. I don't know your…routine, at night. If you don't want me to be a part of it yet, I understand, but if you'll let me…I want to help."

Steve pulled Tony's hand up, kissed the man's knuckles. How he'd managed to find someone like Tony, he had no idea. More accurately, he supposed, he should wonder how Tony managed to find him, since it had really been Tony who'd wiggled his way into Steve's life, not the other way around. Steve fell silent a moment then, trying to find the words to explain himself. He knew Tony didn't expect anything from him, wasn't going to demand anything of him he wouldn't give, but he wanted to. He was admittedly a little cautious of how Tony would react, but if there was anyone who would accept him in spite of it, anyone who might be able to help…

"The numbers, they're…1942. The year I went under."

It hadn't taken him long to figure it out. Nothing was particularly rational about all this, but that part…well. From what Steve could tell, it stemmed from some inner need to cling to that year. The one time everything in his life had been seeming to come together.

"In the mornings, it's…1:11am. That's when I wake up, that's the 1. Then I…"

Steve paused, unsure if he would be able to continue talking about this after all. Saying it out loud…it was so definite, so real. It was one thing to do what the numbers said, to go along with what they wanted, but it was another thing to tell Tony, sane, wonderful Tony, that he brushed his teeth nine times every morning.

Tony turned in his arms, releasing Steve's fingers to cup Steve's face with his hands.

"Whatever you say, whether you even say right now or not, I love you. Nothing you tell me is going to change that. I'm not leaving if this gets hard. I don't know the extent of what you're going through, but I didn't go into this relationship blind, either. I'm in this for you," Tony kissed him briefly, chastely, "And that includes everything that comes with you."

"Tony," Steve murmured, wrapping his arms around Tony's waist, holding the man close, "You're impossible, you know that?"

"And you love it," Tony grinned, and Steve leaned up, unable to resist kissing that grin.

"I do."

They kissed for a moment, before Tony pulled away.

"Your decision, Steve. I'm here, either way."

"9," Steve answered softly, ducking his head, "I brush my teeth nine times. That's the 9 in the year, in 1942. After that, it's the running."

"4 hours. And you lock the door twice. 42."

"Right. Then it goes away, for while, for most of the day, usually. In the beginning, it acted up in other ways too, things like needing to wash my hands a certain number of times after a mission, or needing to read the newspaper all the way through on Thursdays, strange, little things. Those stopped, after you."

Tony's delighted smile was worth the somewhat embarrassing phrasing. Steve smiled back, taking a deep breath before continuing; he could do this, he knew he could. Tony was not going to judge him. Tony was not going to leave. Tony would stay, Steve knew he would, trusted he would.

"At night, it's in reverse. They're all the same, but it's 11:11 instead of 1:11, and…I don't run, at night. I…change. I change into pajamas, get in bed, turn out the light, turn it on, get out, change out of pajamas, and do it again. 4 times."

"Oh Steve," Tony murmured, kissing him softly on the forehead.

"I don't…please don't go into this thinking you can fix me," Steve carefully pulled back, trying to align his thoughts, "I'm not a…project, a piece of technology you can fix, I don't know if…I'm not even sure if I  _can_ be. I want to fix this, but…I don't want you to be disappointed in me if I can't."

"Oh  _Steve,_ baby," Tony murmured again, pulling him in close, "No. If this lasts for the rest of your life, you better believe I'll still be out flying the Mark 4000-what-the-fuck-ever next to you at the ass-crack of dawn every damn morning of our lives."

"You're thinking in rest-of-our-lives terms, then?" Steve tried to keep his voice light, joking.

"I'm thinking in forever terms," Tony answered sincerely, leaning in and closing the gap between them.

When they parted for air, Steve was the first to speak, his voice low, rough with desire.

"Come to bed with me?"

It was more than a let's-have-sex, more than a spend-the-night-with-me. They were both more than aware that if Tony went to bed with Steve now, he would see Steve's night routine. That was the real offer.

"Are you sure?"

"Do I have to ask twice?" Steve cracked a grin.

"Fuck no," Tony dragged Steve into another kiss, hot and intense and hell of a lot needier than before.

Steve wasted no time finding purchase on Tony's ass and hoisting him up-really, super strength had so many convenient uses-without breaking the kiss. Tony legs wrapped around Steve's waist, his hands in Steve's hair, and Steve carried him out of the rec room. They made their way to the front door; Steve pressed Tony against it, never breaking the kiss as he locked it, unlocked it, and locked it again. It was strange, to be making out with Tony while starting his routine, but it was a good kind of strange. A hopeful kind.

They found the elevator, pausing only long enough to find the correct button for Steve's floor. After a few moments the elevator dinged and they stumbled out, Steve almost maneuvering them into the gym before realizing he was headed for the wrong door.

"You," Steve panted, their lips only parting long enough for a few words at a time, "Are incredibly. Distracting."

"Mm," Tony just hummed his approval, slipping a hand into Steve's pants.

Steve nearly walked headfirst into a wall, and briefly debated taking Tony against said wall before shaking his head to himself; sex could come after. If he didn't do this now, he might lose his nerve. They made it into Steve's room, and Steve let Tony down onto the bed. Tony's hands went straight to Steve's shirt, tugging it off, but Steve took hold of Tony's hands.

"Tony," Steve meant to say Tony's name to get his attention, but it came out as a bit more of a moan when Tony arched up, rubbing against Steve.

"Just giving you a preview," Tony all but purred, and Steve reluctantly stepped back. Tony pulled away too, sitting up and tucking his legs under him Indian style on the bed, "Go on, do your thing. No rush."

Steve stepped back, giving Tony an indecipherable look before he moved to the dresser, grabbing an undershirt and pajama bottoms. He stripped down and pulled them on without looking at Tony, horribly ashamed that Tony had to see this strange compulsion. He moved to the bed, slipping under the covers without making eye contact until Tony hooked a finger on Steve's collar and pulled him into a kiss, mouthing 'still love you' against his lips. When Tony released him, Steve looked at him with pleased confusion.

"What? I said no rush, didn't say I'd keep my hands to myself," Tony just winked.

Steve clicked the light out, then on again, slipping back out of bed to undress and redress another three times. Each time he slid into bed, Tony just smiled and pulled him into a kiss, murmuring 'still love you' in confirmation each time. By final time Steve changed, Tony's soft kisses and easy smiles had melted away the skin-crawling shame he'd felt at first. He even turned the last strip into a bit of a tease, and Tony wolf-whistled appreciatively with a wide grin.

After putting on his pajamas for the final time, he moved away to the bathroom, Tony trailing after him. He opened up his medicine cabinet, while Tony hopped up on the edge of the sink. He was leaning back and eyeing Steve thoughtfully, looking for all the world like he did this sort of thing every day.

"Teeth are next, yeah?"

"Yeah," Steve answered softly, picking up his toothbrush.

He brushed his teeth quicker than usual, not wanting to waste Tony's time. As he spat in the sink, Tony spoke up.

"The way you lick your lips when you're thinking. Which should totally be illegal, just so you know."

"What?"

"I told you to get used to hearing why I love you," Tony shrugged unapologetically. Steve gave him a funny look and a brief smile, before picking up his toothbrush again.

When he finished the second time, Tony spoke again.

"Those little doodles you draw of the team in the margins of your meeting notes," Steve blinked, and Tony grinned, "What? They're cute. Even if you occasionally misquote me. I never said I was going to be a supervillain."

"Oh yes you did," Steve chuckled.

"When?"

"That time Loki held Justin Hammer hostage because he thought Hammer was your friend. You didn't want to save him, I said you had to, you told me, and I quote, 'Fuck this, I'm going to quit and be a supervillain then. Think Loki will let me use his glow-stick to make Hammer my puppet if I ask nicely?'"

"Oh yeah," Tony mused, remembering while Steve started his third time, "Yeah, okay, in that context, I could totally be down with supervillainy."

"Ats nah a goo hing, Ony," Steve garbled through a mouth of toothbrush.

"What's that? I'm devastatingly handsome and you love me? Oh, you charmer you."

Steve rinsed and spit with an amused grin, "Sure, Tony."

"That you pretend not to notice when I steal your cooking."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Steve shrugged innocently, "And just how many reasons are you going to give me here?"

"Nine," Tony hummed, and the smile dropped right off Steve's face.

"Tony, you don't have to-"

"I don't," Tony just gave a lazy, easy smile before leaning across the counter to kiss Steve's forehead, "But I'm going to."

They continued on like that, Tony swinging his legs off the countertop, counting off reasons he loved Steve like he was saying the sky was blue or the grass was green. Just fact.

"The way your nose scrunches up all cute when Barton drinks from the carton."

("Is it so hard to get a glass? That's communal orange juice _."_

"Aw, look, it's the scrunchy face!"

"Shut up, Tony.")

"The look of complete wonder on your face that one time we stargazed."

("They're the same, you know? They're the one thing that hasn't…"

"I know, baby. I know.")

"That you let me win at monopoly."

("If I don't, you throw the board halfway across the room!"

"That was  _once,_ and you had a monopoly with Broadway and Park Place and hotels on  _both,_ you bastard."

"You threw the pieces at my head."

"I regret nothing.")

"The way you stick out your tongue when you're losing at Mario Kart."

("I do  _not._ "

"You do. Only when you're losing, too."

"How do you even notice that?"

"Remember reason 1?"

"The licking my lips thing?"

"Yes. Illegal, I'm telling you. It's very distracting."

"So that's why you're terrible at Mario Kart."

"Just brush your teeth, you ingrate.")

"Your heartbeat."

("You love that I have a beating heart?"

"I love that when I fall asleep listening to it, I don't have nightmares.")

"You don't expect Tony Stark, genius billionaire playboy philanthropist from me," Tony told him, his final reason, as Steve put away his toothbrush for the last time. Tony hopped off the edge of the sink, slipping his hands into Steve's, "When you look at me, I know you just want me."

Steve pulled Tony into his arms, capturing his lips in a fiercely grateful kiss.

"Just you, Tony," Steve murmured, leading him back to the bed, "Always you."


	7. Chapter 7

**Epilogue**

The 1 was an easy enough fix.

With Tony sleeping next to him, Steve was able to go to sleep before 11:11, and sleep long after 1:11. He would always be an early riser, but when they slept together they were both able to get more than a few hours sleep. When Steve woke up, he would always have that brief spike of panic-same as every time he opened the freezer, the cold triggering something he couldn't quite let go of-but it lasted no more than a second, brushed away by Tony's skin against his, Tony's steady breathing in his arms. Tony's presence, even asleep, was enough to weigh Steve down, anchor him to the here and now.

9 was the hardest; it took the longest, and it was many years before Steve was able to truly stop.

They tried, in the beginning; tried doing only 8, tried doing only once, even briefly tried not at all, just to see if by not starting Steve wouldn't feel compelled. Whatever they did, it didn't work. The numbers just screamed and screamed, echoing in Steve's head until Tony just kissed him and told him to go brush his teeth again. Tony was always the one to give in, to tell Steve to just listen when the numbers pushed too hard.

 _There's no rush_ , he always said.  _Maybe it'll work tomorrow. Maybe it won't. Maybe it'll work in fifty years, maybe never at all. It doesn't need to. I don't like watching you in pain if there's a solution._

 _That's not a solution,_ Steve always countered bitterly,  _That's giving in._

_When you're able to stop, you will. I have faith in you, Steve._

Tony always seemed to. Eventually, years later, Steve did. He never did learn why, why in that moment he was suddenly able to. All he knew was that he'd gone to the sink, brushed his teeth once, heard Tony's first reason of that night-nothing particularly special, something about how atrocious he was at board games-and just…hadn't felt the need. He'd paused there a long time, waiting for the numbers to rush in his ears, urge him forward…nothing. They stood at the sink maybe five minutes before Tony came up behind him, pulling Steve into his arms.

_Told you._

_And…if they come back?_

_Then they come back. It's nothing we can't handle-together._

Tony had pulled him to their bed, listing his other eight reasons between kisses. Steve had half-heartedly told Tony he didn't have to keep listing reasons anymore, but Tony had only snorted and told him the fact Steve believed he would ever stop was just another reason to love him.

The morning 4 never actually went away.

They were, however, able to make a substitute. Tony had already been disrupting Steve's morning runs for almost two months, but the disruption only put the numbers off, didn't actually stop them. It was Tony that came up with a solution-44. Instead of running for 4 hours, Steve ran for 44 minutes, a much easier thing to fit into their mornings. Steve really did like to run when the numbers weren't breathing down his neck, and with Tony flying next to him, chatting away, he never heard so much as a peep.

The nightly 4 took longer.

Each night between changing, Tony pulled him in, just like that first night together, kissed him quick, murmuring that phrase,  _still love you._ Steve asked about it, once, maybe a week after they'd begun dating.

 _Still love you,_ Tony smiled against his lips, the final time that night.

_Not that I'm objecting, but…why do you say that?_

Tony paused a long moment, looking at Steve as if debating whether or not to say something. Eventually, he did.

_You always look so ashamed of yourself. You look back at me when you finish changing like I'm…like I'm going to be disgusted by it, or bored of you. You give me this look like you're worried things have changed and they haven't. They're not going to; I still love you._

Over the first year or so of their relationship, they managed to whittle it down; first only 3 times a night, then 2, until finally, just the once. Though he'd stopped having to change 4 times a night, every so often, Tony would murmur to him sometime between sex and sleep, s _till love you, you know,_ and Steve would pull him closer, drowsily replying,  _always._

The 2 they never really concerned themselves with.

Over time it sort of went away on it's own, becoming less routine and more of a comforting little tick that Steve was able to ignore when he didn't have time for it, and rely on when he needed something to soothe him. When Tony was away on business, or that god awful time Tony had been in the hospital for nearly a month, Steve took to tapping against the lock.

 _1\. 9. 4._ Lock. _1\. 9. 4._ Unlock.  _1\. 9. 4._ Lock.

It wasn't really good and it wasn't necessarily bad, but it made missing Tony a little more bearable so Steve didn't mention it and he didn't try to stop.

They had their setbacks, of course. Tony had vicious nightmares of his time in Afghanistan, had been having them for months before the Avengers even came together; it had been the reason he'd been up that night he'd caught Steve in his compulsions. They were mostly chased away by sleeping with Steve, but every once in a while they reared their heads. Tony would wake up screaming and sweating and thrashing violently, and Steve would hold him like Tony always held him, whispering reassurances and promises of safety and protection and love until Tony's panicked squirming subsided and he was able to calm down.

Steve still had panic attacks every once in a while, sometimes out of the blue; numbers they thought they'd beaten would resurface. Years, even decades later, every once in a while Steve would be going about the morning or night and suddenly, without even realizing it, start to go through the motions. The hideous shame that came with it would rise, but Tony never said a word. If Steve had a day where he needed his routines, Tony just went along with him, never questioning what had set him back unless Steve wanted to talk about it.

Of course, their lives being what they were, every once in a while, a supervillain attack managed to interrupt a routine. They learned that Steve was able to get into a strange, focused sort of headspace then, able to focus long enough to defeat the threat at hand. He wasn't very talkative, just enough to deliver orders, and his physical strength actually increased, something to do with adrenaline.

The result of this headspace, however, was messy. As soon as the immediate danger was gone, Steve was a wreck, confused and panicked and destructive. Only Tony could calm him down, but even then it took time. Patience was something Tony never seemed to run out of, but the time it took to calm Steve down was time Tony was in danger.

Though he did everything in his power not to, Steve did hit Tony again. The third time wasn't good-it would never be good-but it was just a slight bruising on Tony's arm, and nothing compared to the second time.

The second time was maybe a month after they'd begun their relationship. He was coming down from the headspace, and he snapped Tony's wrist fighting him off when Tony thought Steve's silence meant he'd calmed and he hadn't. The moment Steve realized what he'd done, he fell silent. Tony was talking a million miles an hour, mostly to reassure Steve he didn't care, he was never going to care, it was worth it, et cetera et cetera, but Steve knew part of Tony's speed-talking was out of pain, and that cut Steve to the bone.

He didn't say a word, just took Tony by the other arm and hauled him down to Bruce's workshop.

 _His wrist,_ Steve informed Bruce in a clipped tone,  _My fault._

Then, he turned to Tony.

_I need to be alone right now._

Tony had looked at him then, and for a long moment Steve thought Tony would say no. Steve was going to leave either way, but he needed this. He needed to know that Tony could be okay with that, that Tony wouldn't try and come after him. That Tony would be still be there for him when he came back. As always, Tony knew what Steve needed to hear.

_Still love you._

It was the same thing he whispered to Steve every night when he made his rounds, changing between pajamas and clothes. It was a new routine,  _their_ routine, and Steve was going to miss it like a body part.

But he needed to go.

He left on his bike not ten minutes later, unsure where he was going but knowing that he needed to be away from Tony to think. He drove almost all day and stayed the nights in motels. He never stayed still, never long enough in one place to get even the barest of impressions before taking off again. He spent his time thinking about Tony, about their relationship. The danger he posed to Tony was very, very real, he knew that. At the same time, they all took risks with their lives for things they deemed worth it.

Clint jumped off buildings on a regular basis to take the shot he needed to take, because he had faith Thor or Tony would swoop in to catch him. Natasha dove into heavy fire more than once, knowing Steve would be there with his shield should anything stray too close. Bruce trusted them all to keep him on the right side of the hero/beast line, and to protect him when he changed back.

They made their choices, and they lived with them.

He needed to believe in Tony, to trust his decision. They all took risks with their lives every day, and it was Tony's choice to take this one. Steve would do everything in his power to protect Tony, from both the supervillain of the week and from himself, but he wouldn't doubt Tony's decision to put himself on the line for what he believed was worth it.

Steve returned to Avengers Tower, to Tony, little more than a week later. Tony's wrist was in a cast, and the look of pure relief on his face told Steve he'd made the right choice. Tony didn't say anything, shyly, adorably unsure of what decision Steve had made. Steve crossed the room the blink of an eye, pulling Tony into an abrupt, needy kiss.

_Does that mea-?_

_Yes._

They told the other Avengers the extent of Steve's condition that afternoon. Not the details, but the scope of the problem. Coulson held a briefing a week later about how react to panic attacks-don't touch, talk in a soothing tone, etc etc. Halfway through Tony hacked the powerpoint to display a picture of his face and the words 'don't even try, just go get Tony', for which Steve gave him a half-hearted glare. That night, one of Tony's nine reasons was the way Steve glared when he knew Tony was right.

Though over the decades Steve's symptoms faded away, Tony never did stop giving him reasons.

Sometimes, it was silly little things, minor details no one else would even blink at. Tony couldn't remember a birthday or an anniversary to save his life-even major holidays could be hit and miss-but there wasn't a single detail about Steve too minor to escape Tony's attention.

"The intense, far-off look you get when you're really into a sketch."

"That you know my favorite coffee mug."

"Your ridiculous love of list-making."

"The way you write your 'q's all squiggly."

"That you actually walk little old ladies across the street."

"The wide-eyed look you still get when you walk into superstores."

Sometimes it was funny things, moments they'd shared over the years that Tony held close, shared jokes and random adventures Tony used to get a laugh from him when things were a little too serious.

"You know all the right times to nod when I'm babbling."

"Your Captain America voice;  _hel_ lo."

"The look on your face that time I asked if you wanted to get fondue."

"The fact that the symbol of America doesn't like apple pie."

"How deliciously awful you are at strip poker."

"That face you make when supervillains dare to interrupt team bonding time."

And then sometimes, Tony was simple.

"You stay when you have every reason to leave."

"You bring out my best when I'm at my worst."

"The ease with which you read my mind."

"The way you look at me."

"You're my best friend."

"You're you."

Tony whispered the last as his ninth reason on their wedding night, pressing kisses to the back of Steve's neck. Steve had been embarrassed, ashamed that even on their wedding night he had still been unable to let go of his routine. Yet, with two gentle, loving words, so clearly a reason saved for a special moment, Tony did as Tony does best; he wiped Steve's shame clean away, turning a humiliating routine into one of Steve's most precious memories.

Steve reflected once, decades later, after his compulsions had faded but Tony's whisper-soft promises of reasons to love him had not, that in all their years and all his many reasons, Tony had never once mentioned Steve's appearance as a cause.

No because you're so sexy, no because you've got abs of steel, no because I look at you and want to drool. Tony had told him all the above and plenty more a thousand times, of course, but never then, never in his nine nightly reasons. To Tony's mind, Steve knew, those weren't reasons. They were benefits, but they weren't why Tony loved him. And Steve found himself thinking then, that for all the varied reasons Tony seemed to think he loved Steve more than anything, Steve knew without question that Tony was wrong.

Because Steve loved Tony like a drowning man loved air; fiercely, instinctively, with a desire that filled his very being. Tony had saved him that day on the stairs, and Tony had saved him every day since.

And for that, Steve knew in his bones, he would always love Tony so much more.


End file.
